Stand Still and Breathe
by Chronic Potterphile
Summary: (Spoilers to 8.23, AU) Sam and Dean are brothers again. That's what matters, right? They just need to figure out a way to pull Sam back on his feet now. Except this time, it's not that easy. And there's Castiel, who is now human: a broken human. Soon, the two most important people in Dean's life are fading away, and there's nothing he can do about it. (Destiel, and a very ill Sam).
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own anything you recognise. I really wish I did, but nope. Kripke is the one who created them. We owe him. If Sam and Dean were mine, though…

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**A/N:** I really should be studying and working on other WIPs, but this struck me two nights ago and I just had to get it out. Just a few things before you proceed to read—

The fic idea came to me while I was studying internal medicine and DDx-ing Sam in my mind. And I decided to make a story out of one of the conclusions I drew about what he could be suffering from. This fic, therefore, will focus mostly on Sam's health, and Sam and Dean's (very brotherly) relationship after episode 8.23, Castiel being human, and Dean and Castiel's (not brotherly) relationship. Yes, all of those things. However, please remember that this is NOT a season 9 speculation fic, and is pretty much AU. A lot of time has passed since 8.23 in the prologue, but chapter 1 will pick up from where the episode ended.

Also, the story focuses on a potentially fatal illness, and will feature a very ill Sam, and if that is bound to trigger anything, please don't read it. As of now, the plot in my head is pretty loose, but I know what I want in the story, and will shortly be making my ideas systematic. Some parts in the end are from a dream I had a while ago. The dream sent shivers through my spine when I woke up, and I noted the idea down, hoping to use it some day - so here goes.

Please do respond, though. This is only my second SPN fic and I'm nervous. Let me know how I'm doing! Should I continue or not? Reviews will definitely spur me on.

This story contains slash. The ship will be Dean/Castiel.

Please, please, please review! Cupcakes and love if you do!

_Warnings: _Sexual situations (not explicit, slight smutty bits), alcohol abuse, strong profanity, alternate universe.

Thank you, BohemianMoose, for being a lovely beta! :)

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**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**Prologue**

Agony. _Fucking _agony.

"Come on, Dean!"

Dean could vaguely hear Sam's encouraging words as they shuffled forward, trying to find their way out of the house. Everything ahead of him was blurred; muted, somehow, and even Sam sounded like an out-of-tune radio.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Sam's hazy figure twisting around to cast a look at him now and then, his arm curving around his elder brother's waist in order to hold him up. The elder Winchester had one arm looped around his brother's neck, and his other hand clutched the wound at his abdomen, which was oozing little rivulets of blood, dampening his clothes and leaving a trail on the grimy floor.

"Come on, man," Sam said again, as Dean's knees buckled, "don't pass out on me. We need to get out of here."

"C-Cas…"

"He's on his way."

"D-Did he…?"

"He did," said Sam, and Dean could feel worried eyes on him again, "we just saw the ghost flame away, remember?"

"T-Then why… why are we… here?" He struggled to formulate complete sentences through the pain.

"Dean," Sam breathed. "We came to rescue those teenagers. They were going to camp in here for the night. We sent them away… You don't remember?" Dean could hear the apprehension seep through Sam's voice. Yes. He was supposed to remember this, wasn't he? He was supposed to remember this. But somehow, his memory couldn't grasp on to anything.

Had it been a simple haunting? Maybe. Had he and Sam come to the help of some foolish teenagers, while Castiel had gone off to salt and burn the remains? Maybe. Had Sam and Dean helped the teenagers escape, beforegetting trapped in the house themselves because the ghost got angry with Castiel for trying to get rid of it? Maybe. Dean couldn't remember much, really. But from what his brother said, this was the gist of what had just happened.

"Nearly there… just a little more…"

Dean nodded weakly at his brother, his eyes rolling in and out of focus. "Dean, stay with me," Sam said in a pleading voice, and the other man tried to concentrate on the faint rectangular outline at the end of the room.

Finally, they were at the door. Someone was already trying to open it from the other side — Castiel, no doubt, having done his job.

"Dean!" came Castiel's muffled voice, as Sam tried to open the door from their side. It wouldn't budge.

"Okay, just a minute… wait here," Sam said to Dean, depositing him against the wall before trying to pull the door open with all his might. Nothing happened.

"Cas?" Sam called out to the former angel, "it won't move from here. Get the axe from the Impala. And hurry!" He bent over and slid the car keys under the door.

"Okay," replied Castiel. Dean heard the jingle of the keys being handled from the other end, muffled footsteps, and the sound of the Impala's trunk opening, then slamming shut.

Castiel was back after a couple of minutes. "I'm breaking down the door. Stand back."

There were two thumps and then a crashing sound as the door gave away, wood breaking and splintering under the impact of the blade. Sam came back to Dean and helped him stand up again. "Almost there, Dean," he encouraged again, "almost there."

Dean was cold and nauseous. The pain was numbing away, though, and blackness was settling into the corners of his eyes. The blood was still seeping out; the wound was too huge and deep to facilitate quick clotting. But Dean wasn't worried. He had his brother. He had Cas.

"Almost there," Sam whispered again. The hole through the door finally opened enough for a man to pass through, and Castiel came in immediately.

His blue eyes widened at the sight of the elder Winchester. "Dean!"

"He's injured pretty bad," Sam explained unnecessarily, as Castiel came forward to help. Together, he and Sam moved Dean outside, Sam still whispering the same two words over and over again. _"Almost there."_

Dean leaned his head against Castiel's shoulder and sighed, causing the latter to tighten his hold on him, pulling him closer. He let the added warmth ease him. He was happy. There was nothing else that he wanted.

"Almost there," said Sam, again, reiterating the two words like a refrain, tears breaking his voice. That was when Dean saw his Impala. His beloved car. It stood there, glinting in the sunrise. The white glow of the new day began to overtake black and Dean glanced at Sam, who went ahead and opened the door to the vehicle.

"You're going to be okay."

"Yeah," Dean whispered, "I… k-know."

He turned to Castiel, who was evidently on the verge of tears as well. "You have to hold on, Dean. Please."

"Cas…" said Dean, "L-Love… you, man…"

And then the former angel's face melded into the sunlight as Dean let go of the reins. He was safe. Safe with Sam, safe in Cas's arms. They'd never let anything bad happen to him. He had nothing to worry about.

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**A/N:** :o What's wrong with Dean? Isn't it supposed to be Sam? Well, you'll know, ha! Like I said, quite some time has passed after Sam's demon curing quest here, and the paths leading to this is what you will see in this story. :)

Anyway, do you like it? Do you want me to continue? There's a lot of research involved in this fic and just give me some feedback, and let me know if I should do this, and I promise I will work hard on it. I will give you my best. Please review! :)


	2. Well-Trodden Paths

**A/N:** Thank you for the follows and the review! Here's the first chapter for you guys!

Now I know you guys must have looked up season 9 spoilers as eagerly as I did after the panel yesterday. They did mention something about Sam's health there, (and I don't want to say it here, in case someone doesn't want to look at ANY spoilers at all), but this story will not comply with what they've revealed. It's still just me writing a story based off my DDx and exploring the brotherly dynamics between Sam and Dean, and also Destiel.

That said, here's the new chapter! I've read through the thing several times, but it's still very late at night here, and I might have left some mistakes. I will go through this again and correct it in the morning.

And as much as I adore favourites and follows, do review too! It's the most wonderful thing when you do that. :) Like I said, this fic demands extensive research. I'm an undergrad MBBS student, not a specialist, so we're pretty much still hovering on the basics. So it would be wonderful if you could perhaps feed the hungry box?

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**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**1. Well-Trodden Paths**

**_A few months ago_**

"What is happening?"

Dean was a little shocked, but relieved at the sound of Sam's voice as he watched the sky, mouth slightly agape, trying to drink in the scene before him. A thousand shooting starts were streaking across the night and racing to the horizon — a beautiful sight indeed. Except, it was uglier than that. These weren't shooting starts. It was something far, far worse.

"Angels," Dean replied to Sam. "They're falling."

"What…?" Sam gasped, wheezing, trying to draw in a breath; and Dean's attention snapped back to his brother as he realised that the angels were the lesser of his worries at this moment. After everything that had just happened, after getting Sam to come out from the brink of death again, Dean couldn't bear to lose his brother another time.

He laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder as Sam clutched at his chest, continuing to struggle. "We'll deal with that later. But right now, we've gotta get you out of here," Dean said to him, trying to remain calm. "You have to stand up, okay? I'll help you. Come on."

Sam didn't argue with Dean. He just nodded and made an effort to stand, and Dean realised that Sam complying so easily was a mark of how bad his condition was. Wordlessly, he supported his little brother and together, they got to their feet. An arm still holding Sam up, Dean stumbled to open the back door of the Impala. It creaked as he pulled the handle, and he struggled under Sam's weight before finally managing to sit the taller man on the seat.

"Lie down," Dean instructed him, as he lifted his brother's legs into the car. Sam obeyed him, hugging his chest and coughing again. Minute droplets of blood spurted on the upholstery.

Dean cringed, but he bent over and patted Sam on his knee. "Hang in there, buddy, we'll be in the hospital in no time."

"Not… hospital…" Sam gasped as Dean got behind the wheel.

"I don't think we have a choice there, Sammy," the latter replied sadly as he turned on the ignition. "You good? Shall I start driving?"

"Mmm."

Sam coughed wetly again and Dean shuddered as he began to drive. He definitely remembered having seen a hospital situated about ten minutes from the church, and that was exactly where he was taking Sam. This wasn't the moment for home remedies. The abandoned trial seemed to have hit Sam really hard, and at this moment, Dean just found himself hoping that the damage wasn't permanent or fatal. He'd never be able to live with himself if that happened. But he knew that his hopes were probably too high. They were the freaking _Winchesters_, and they just _had_ to be in trouble.

The roads were unusually quiet as Dean sped his car through them, the only sounds around him being the purr of the Impala, and Sam's heavy breathing. Dean had read somewhere long ago, that if you could hear someone breathe, it wasn't a good thing. And right now, he could not only hear Sam breathe, he could also hear him wheeze, hack and struggle.

He stopped outside the ER in exactly ten minutes and got out of his car, pulling his brother out after him. Sam was losing consciousness now, his head lolling and his chin to his chest, while Dean walked him into the ER as quickly as he could. "Hold on, hold on, we're almost there. Sammy, you with me?"

There was no response from his brother. Dean hurried and burst in through the automatic doors. "Need help here!"

A nurse took one look at Sam's distress and ran forward to their assistance, as a few of the staff came behind her, pushing along a stretcher. Dean half-lifted his brother onto the gurney and Sam's eyes were rolling in and out of focus as the nurse tilted his chin upwards to allow maximum air inside. When they began to wheel him into a cubicle, Sam coughed, and a spurt of blood alarmed them all.

"Sit him up," the nurse instructed, and Dean propped up his brother's weight as swiftly as he could. The nurse held Sam's head forward so that the blood could drain out of his mouth, and he wouldn't choke on it. Sam coughed again, trying to take deep, gasping breaths in between.

"Hey, hey, easy," Dean said to his brother, placing a hand on his forearm. "You're going to be okay."

They hurried Sam into a cubicle in the ER and the nurse worked quickly, holding a basin out to Dean, who put it in front of Sam's mouth in case he needed to spit again. Sam let out a loud gasp when they placed a suction tube into his mouth in order to aspirate the remaining blood from his previous coughing fit. Once that was done, he started to cough again, spitting blood into the basin this time. Dean was alarmed at the sudden intensification of the symptom, but he tried to keep the worry out of his face and voice as he handed a tissue to Sam from the cabinet. "Easy, brother."

The nurse — Melody, as her name tag read, had started an IV and was injecting something through the catheter. Sam gasped once, and his breathing slowly eased as the nurse added another injection. "Just a little BZD to calm you down," she said. One of the other staff came to them with a small table fan and Melody quickly switched it on and directed it to Sam's face. "Better?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes half-open, and nodded. "Try to relax. The doctor will be over in a minute," the nurse said, when she had finished attaching Sam to a monitor. She added the pulse oximeter to Sam's finger. "How long has he had these symptoms, Mr—?"

"Wilson," Dean replied, remembering the name on his insurance card. "Dean Wilson. This is my brother, Sam."

She nodded. "Like I said, Mr Wilson, I've informed the doctor, and she will be here soon. Before we start treating, though, we will need a history of his symptoms. How long has he had the bloody coughing?"

"A few months…" Dean trailed away as Sam started to cough again. He held the basin under his brother's chin again, watching him spit out strings of blood fearfully, as Melody rubbed Sam's back. Finally, Sam finished coughing, and sagged forward, exhausted. Dean handed Sam a few more tissues and helped his brother recline against the bed as the nurse placed the fan closer to Sam's face. His breathing eased again, and Dean almost let out a sigh of relief.

"Acute dyspnoea and haemoptysis?" a female voice asked, as the curtains were ripped open. A tall woman walked in — a doctor. She wasn't much older than Dean, and she had her dark hair in a tight bun. Knowing brown eyes shone behind thick-framed glasses. The name on her tag read _Dr D. Pittman, MD_. Her eyes travelled to Sam. "Good, he's stable. Have you taken blood for sampling?" she asked the nurse, glancing at the file.

"No, I was just about to," Melody, replied. "I had to give him low-dose morphine and a BZD for the dyspnoea. Should I start the opioid infusion?"

"We'll see if he needs it. Let me get to a diagnosis," Dr Pittman replied to Melody.

"Okay, I'll get you a CBC ASAP, then." Melody proceeded to draw out a sample of Sam's blood, but frowned when she lifted his arm. "Dr Pittman?"

The doctor bent over to inspect Sam's forearm, and Dean realised they were looking at the needle marks. Great. That would look very good indeed. Melody also proceeded to remove Dean's bandanna and the other handkerchief from Sam's arm, revealing a cut mark and another bite mark. Both doctor and nurse didn't know how to react to it. Dean noticed it. "Did Crowley _bite_ you?" he whispered to Sam incredulously.

Sam nodded, his eyes half-mast, and before Dean could open his mouth, the doctor straightened herself. "You know what to do," she said to the nurse. The nurse nodded, asked Sam to make a fist, took blood, and was gone.

The doctor turned to Sam. "Okay, Sam, I'm going to check you up now. But before that, you have to tell me what you've been using. It will help me with my diagnosis."

Sam just shook his head.

"Don't worry, you're safe," the Dr Pittman encouraged him. "It will be more helpful if you tell us."

"He wasn't taking anything," Dean replied for Sam.

The doctor looked suspicious, but she reached for her stethoscope. "All right, but Melody is getting a tox screen done, just in case." She put the stethoscope to her ear and tapped the diaphragm twice. "I'm going to listen to your heart sounds and breathing. Ready?" she asked Sam.

The latter nodded tiredly as the doctor bent over, placing the diaphragm on a few parts of his chest first, listening, and then instructed him to take a deep breath. Sam did as she instructed, and Dean cringed slightly at the discomfort on his brother's face.

"Almost done, almost done," soothed Dr Pittman. "Can you sit up for me, just for a minute?"

Dean helped Sam sit up again as the doctor put the diaphragm to the younger Winchester's back, listening some more. After a few seconds, she took the stethoscope off and instructed Sam to lie down. Then she percussed his chest, her face in a frown at the sounds.

"I think we might need to keep you here a while, Sam," she said, once she had finished the percussion. She glanced at his monitor and took the file, before proceeding to write something. "I'm ordering a chest X-Ray for you, and Melody will be back with your blood report in a few minutes. I also want a bronchoscopy done after a while, so I can find out what exactly is going wrong for all that blood to be present in your sputum. In the meantime," she turned to Dean, "Can I talk to you outside?"

This never meant anything good, Dean realised, as he nodded and got out of the cubicle with the doctor. She shut the curtains behind them and led him to a quiet spot where they could talk. "I need Sam's symptomatic history," she told Dean without preamble. "When did the symptoms start?"

"The… the bloody coughing started a few months ago," Dean replied, glancing at Sam's cubicle.

"How many months?"

"A couple of months, I suppose." Dean replied to her. "I didn't know… I didn't find out for a while."

"So I take it, Sam didn't see a doctor about it?" the doctor asked, putting her hands into her pockets.

"No."

"And the breathlessness?"

"Just now," Dean replied. "About twenty minutes ago."

"Anything else I should know of? Chest pain? Fever? Vomiting?"

"He said his body hurt, but not specifically his chest," Dean replied. "And he had a fever too — a few weeks ago. He wasn't hurling, but he said he was nauseous. He was also quite tired, and – and kinda weak on his legs."

The doctor pursed her lips. "How has his appetite been?"

"It's not all there," Dean said to her truthfully. He hesitated. "What's wrong with him, Doc?"

"I don't know for sure yet," Dr Pittman replied to Dean. "We need to conduct tests to find out." She turned to the closed curtains. "Why don't you fill out some forms for him in the waiting room, while we get his blood results and X-Ray? I'll get back to you in a while."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it, and nodded. He walked to Sam's cubicle and opened the curtain. "Sammy, I'm in the waiting room, filling forms, okay?" he said. "I'll be back when they're done x-raying you. Have the nurse call me if you need anything." Sam nodded at him, his face gaunt and pale.

Dean gave him a small smile and swallowed a lump in his throat before proceeding to the waiting room. He took a seat, running a hand through his hair as he did so. He hoped, once again, that whatever the doctors would find would be curable — treatable, at least. He knew it was expecting too much, since Castiel had said right after Sam's symptoms had started after the first trial, that he was damaged in ways that even the angel couldn't heal.

Angel. Oh God, angels. Naomi had been right about Metatron's plan. It was no wonder that Castiel hadn't heard Dean's last prayer to him — he probably wasn't an angel anymore.

No. Considering what he had witnessed outside the church, Dean was very sure that Cas wasn't an angel anymore.

_Cas was human. _

_Oh, God_.

Dean needed to find out where Castiel was. He pulled out his phone, intending to call Kevin, but was surprised to see a few missed calls on it. How hadn't he heard the phone ring? He checked the identity and realised that it was Kevin. He dialled the teenager's number.

"Hello?" said an anxious voice after a single ring. "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Did you …? What just happened?"

"You saw that?"

"Yeah," Kevin replied. "These alarms went off in your bunker and… I d-don't know… is something wrong?"

"Wait, alarms? You didn't see the angels fall?"

"The – the angels _fell_?" Kevin asked incredulously. "What is happening?"

"Metatron lied," said Dean. He paused. "I'll talk to you about it later, okay? Have you seen, or heard from Cas?"

"No, I haven't. Where's he?"

"I have no idea," Dean replied.

"Where are _you_?"

"In the hospital."

"Is it Sam…?"

"Yeah."

Kevin took a deep breath. "How is he? Did he finish the trial?"

Dean felt guilt weigh down upon him as he remained quiet. Kevin had sacrificed six months of his life, his mother and his girlfriend for the demon tablet, and—

"He finished the trial, didn't he?" Kevin's voice was calmer. "Dean?"

Dean sighed. "No."

"He didn't complete the trials," Kevin repeated, emotion draining from his voice as it became calmer still. "You're kidding me, right?"

"I'm sorry, Kev."

"How come?" Kevin asked, his voice now frighteningly calm.

Dean cringed at the teenager's voice. "He – he… listen—"

"You asked him to stop because Naomi told you he'd die." It wasn't a question. Kevin had deduced it for himself.

"He's my brother." Dean could offer no other explanation. There was silence.

"Screw you, Dean," said Kevin bitterly, breaking it. "What do I look like I am? Some sacrificial lamb? I – I lost my mom and my girlfriend over translating that tablet for you! You couldn't have Sam complete _one_ more trial?"

"He'd die, Kev—"

"Yeah, yeah, and what about me losing my mom? That was okay?"

"I know, I know," said Dean. "And I'm sorry. But…" he trailed away. What could he tell Kevin? That he couldn't, for the life of him, bear to lose Sam? But Kevin already knew that. "I'm sorry," Dean reiterated, knowing there was nothing else he could say except for that.

"Just… stop, okay?" Kevin sighed. "Screw you," he repeated, and disconnected the call abruptly.

Dean held the phone to his ear for a few more seconds before pushing it back to his pocket. He washed a hand down his face. He would have to talk to Kevin again. And where was Castiel?

_Son of a bitch,_ he thought, burying his face in his hands. _Sammy, just be all right now. Please._

**~o~**

Castiel's eyes were still trained on the sky, even though the lights had stopped streaking across a while ago. He stared into the night, fists clenching and unclenching the material of his trenchcoat as he did so. He could barely make out the wetness on his cheeks. All he knew was that his brothers and sisters had just been banished out of heaven; cast out of their homes, and that his gullibility had caused it. How could he have trusted Metatron, when he knew what angels could be like? How could he believe that Metatron was any different, when he was aware of the kind of games that his kind was used to playing?

_His kind._ That didn't exist. He was not an angel anymore. He was a human being.

His knees hurt, and he realised that he had been kneeling on the hard ground. He had no idea for how long, but the physical sensation of the ache; the visceral sensation of hunger, emanating deep in his stomach, and another strange sensation — an emptiness, were indicative of his humanness. There were so many perceptions in him at once — so many nerve synapses firing away different kinds of signals — physical and mental— that Castiel didn't know how humans dealt with them on a regular basis. It was no wonder his father loved them so much; they were stronger than they looked. They bore more than what was visible.

He stood up from his place and wiped his eyes. Dean was going to be looking for him. The Winchesters would know of what had just happened. He needed to get to them.

He started to walk, wondering at the same time if Sam was all right. The last he had seen the man, he was able to detect an irreparable damage in him. The damage was small after the first trial, but after the second one, it had got worse. Much worse. Castiel had sensed the sheer change at once, but decided not to tell Dean unless asked, because he knew Dean would be worried, and he didn't think the elder Winchester could bear to take up any more worries. Either ways, he knew Dean would be worried enough — even if Sam wasn't dead already. And he wanted to be there for his friend.

His feet were heavy as he found his way through the woods. The leaves crunched under his shoes and he kept walking, listening dully to the rustling, cracking sounds. He was tired in a way he'd never been before. And the only times he'd felt close to this were the times that he was almost human a few years ago. However, at the moment, the exhaustion was different. It was not only his body that was fatigued. It was his mind too.

He reached a road once he had walked some, and a little ways down, he could see a grocery store. His stomach let out an involuntary rumble. He was familiar with food, with his vessel's craving for red meat at the time when Famine had attacked, but he was not familiar with this intense, basic human perception that was hunger. At this moment, he realised, a sandwich and some coffee would very much please him.

Castiel rummaged the pocket of his trenchcoat and extracted a few crumpled bills that he had remaining from the shopping expedition a few days ago. He didn't care about the hunger at this moment; he just wanted to get to Dean first. And for that, he'd have to call the other man.

There was a tinkle as Castiel opened the door to the store. He headed straight to the cashier. "I need to use your phone," he said.

The other man looked up. "Excuse me?"

"Your phone?" Castiel asked, pointing to the landline.

"Uh… yeah, sure," the man replied, running his eyes up and down Castiel's form. He gestured to the phone. "Go ahead."

Castiel picked up the receiver and dialled the foremost phone number in his mind.

**~o~**

Dean's phone was ringing. Hoping it was Castiel this time, he removed it again. It was Kevin.

"Kev?" he asked, accepting the call.

"Dean…" the teenager paused. "I… just called to say… I'm sorry."

Dean sighed. "It's okay, Kev, I—"

"No, you were right to do what you did," said Kevin. "I'd have done it too. Sorry I got all pissy on you. Hope Sam's fine."

"Yeah, yeah, he's better," said Dean. "They've taken him for an X-Ray, and they say he might have to spend a couple'a days here, but I guess he's going to be okay." _False hopes_, said Dean's mind again. He had a nasty feeling it wasn't about to stop at that.

"That's – that's good," said Kevin. There was brief silence.

Dean's phone suddenly started to beep and he took it off his ear to see an unknown number flashing on his screen. He told Kevin he'd speak to him later, and took the second call.

"Hello?"

"Dean."

The voice sounded shaky, worried and scared. It sounded sad and relieved. Dean, however, was happy just at the sound of his name. "Cas? Cas, where are you, man? You okay?"

"I…" Castiel paused, and Dean could hear him take a deep breath. "I…" He just sighed. Castiel had never sounded this way to Dean, and the latter felt a pang of sympathy for the former angel, despite all the anger he had felt against him in the last few weeks.

"Hey, I know," said Dean. "I saw what happened. I'm sorry. Where are you? Can you get to the bunker?"

"Are you at the bunker?"

"No, Kevin's there. I'm in a hospital. With Sammy."

"How is he doing?"

Dean bit his lip as he felt it tremble. "Not good, Cas. But they say he's going to live…"

Castiel seemed to have nothing to say to that. Instead he said, "I'm coming to the hospital. Give me the address." His voice sounded stronger this time.

"You don't—"

"I want to, Dean."

"Okay." Dean paused, and narrated the name of the hospital and address to Castiel. "Do you have money?" he asked the other man.

"Yes, I have some in my pocket," Castiel replied. "I will catch a bus and get there as soon as I can."

Dean nodded. "Thanks, Cas—" The phone, however, was disconnected and Dean leaned back against his seat for a minute before bending over and filling the rest of Sam's forms.

**~o~**

Sam was moved to a room upstairs after his X-Ray, since Dr Pittman insisted that she wanted to monitor him awhile and conduct a few more tests. He felt a little better from how he had been feeling at the church. Breathing wasn't very easy, but he wasn't struggling for his breath anymore thanks to whatever cocktail the nurse had given him (he thought he'd heard morphine). There was, however, a dull ache in his chest. He felt extremely tired too, and his head throbbed slightly as nausea trailed the corners of his senses.

"I've called your brother here," Melody said, adjusting an IV bag on the stand. "Your X-Ray result should be out in a few minutes."

Sam swivelled lazy, exhausted eyes to her. "What's wrong with me?"

"Well, your tox screen is clean and your blood work wasn't bad," said the nurse, "You're slightly anaemic, but not all that much — it's mostly because of the chronic bloody sputum. We can't find signs of an infection right now, so it's probably trauma. Anyway, the X-Ray will tell us what we need to know, and we can start treating for whatever it is that's causing the breathlessness. How are you feeling? Still breathless?"

"Not really, better," Sam replied, just as there was a knock on the door. Melody opened it to let Dean in, who immediately pulled up a stool next to his brother's bed.

"How are you feelin', Sammy?"

"Same as I was fifteen minutes ago when you left," said Sam, cracking a weak smile, as Melody left to give them their privacy.

"Don't be a smartass," Dean scolded him. He paused. "Kevin called."

"And?"

"He hopes you get better," Dean said, "He's probably getting back to working on the angel tablet."

"He wasn't pissed?" Sam asked him.

Dean didn't reply to that. Sam sighed. "You should have—"

"No."

"Dean." Sam paused. He wished Dean would understand. He wished Dean would realise. There was no use now. No use for coming to the hospital, or discovering whatever it was that had been plaguing his body for the last few months (if it wasn't something supernatural and inexplicable, that is). Sam could feel the damage inside him. He could feel the change, and he knew it wasn't something that could be chased out by a couple of drugs, or scooped off by some scalpel.

"I wasn't going to let you die," Dean said. "I'm not going to let you die."

"Everybody dies."

"Not you. Not under my watch."

Sam gave up, breathing a little at the nausea that seemed to have intensified slightly. There was no use for having this conversation with his brother. He knew Dean was smart enough to make out from Dr Pittman and Nurse Melody's expressions that they weren't exactly happy with Sam's condition.

A pang of fear passed through Sam. No matter what he said to Dean, he didn't want to die. Not now, after abandoning the trials, and after the renewed reconciliation with Dean.

"Cas called too," Dean said again, breaking the silence.

Sam turned to him. "Is he…?"

"Yeah, he's human," Dean replied, running a hand down his face. "He's coming here."

"He didn't have to."

"I asked him to go to the bunker, but he said he wanted to come."

Sam swallowed again at the rising nausea. "That's incredibly nice of him, then. Considering… ugh," he groaned, swallowing again.

"What is it?" Dean asked him, alert.

"Feel a little sick," Sam admitted to him. "No, I'm not about to throw up," he told Dean when the latter began to reach for the emesis basin.

"Okay, hang on, I'll call the nurse," Dean replied, getting up and leaving the room. He was back in a couple of minutes with Nurse Melody following him. She came up to Sam and felt his forehead.

"Queasy?"

"A little," Sam said to her.

"Hmm," she glanced at the IV bags. "I gave you low-dose morphine to ease your breathing. That could be it. It's just transient. You'll feel better. Let me know if you vomit."

Sam nodded and just as Nurse Melody was about to exit the room, Dr Pittman came in, X-Ray in hand. "I just got your results," she replied, hanging up the film on the light box and switching it on. She stood back and frowned.

"You have a pleural effusion, Sam," she said, turning to the Winchester. "Know what that is?"

"Fluid in my pleural space," Sam replied, nodding.

"Yes," said Dr Pittman. "Now you say that the chest pain just started before you came here?"

"That's right."

"Hmm…" she paused. "Pleural effusions actually take time to show extreme symptoms, and I can't figure out why yours was sudden, but I can extract some fluid and get it tested. That way, we'll catch the actual culprit behind all these symptoms."

Sam nodded, swallowing again through the nausea. Dr Pittman turned to Melody. "Can you get me a tray for his thoracentesis? Get me the collection bag as well. Let's get the fluid out while we're at it."

The nurse nodded and left as Dr Pittman took a stool on Sam's other side. She looked at Dean. "You can get a coffee if you want to. The procedure isn't very pretty."

"I'm good," Dean insisted, and Sam felt unexpected relief at that. Nurse Melody came back with a tray. Dr Pittman loaded a syringe. "Okay, Sam, you need to sit up, lean forward and face your back to me."

Sam obeyed her, and Dean helped him sit up and turn. As Dr Pittman undid Sam's gown to bare his back, Dean put his hands on his brother's shoulders to support him as he leaned forward. Sam, for once, didn't swat Dean away. He knew Dean was as confused and scared as he was, and was only trying to do whatever he could within his power to help Sam. He decided to let his brother have that liberty.

"You ready?" Dean asked Sam. The latter nodded, and the doctor took that as her cue to swab an area on Sam's back.

"I'm going to anaesthetise the area, so you won't feel the bigger needle," she said, and Sam inhaled sharply at the tiny prick on his chest. Dean's fingers squeezed his shoulder slightly, and Sam felt numbness spread over a small part of his back, slow and steady. Then he felt a prodding, pulling sensation, that he could only guess was the needle being withdrawn, and then pressure.

"Give me the syringe," said Dr Pittman's voice and Sam heard the nurse move to obey. The doctor's breath hitched slightly, but she didn't say much else, except for, "Collection bag."

Sam immediately felt some of the pressure in his chest relieve and he took a deep breath, feeling better and better as he realised that the fluid was draining away. There was silence, and Sam wondered why the doctor wasn't saying anything. Then Nurse Melody spoke.

"He was nauseous. I assumed it was the morphine."

Sam wondered why she sounded low. Dr Pittman didn't reply for a few moments. "Get me serum electrolytes," she said thoughtfully. "And I'm scheduling him for a CT scan."

Sam saw Dean look up at this. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"I think I missed something in the chest X-Ray because of the fluid clouding his lungs. I'm ordering a CT just to know if it's really there."

"Really _what_ is there?"

She crossed over, to Sam's line of sight, and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Sam saw that the syringe in her other hand was filled with bloody fluid.

"We will take care of him as much as we can," she promised, before giving the syringe to the nurse and leaving the room.

* * *

**A/N:** So what could he have? Any guesses?

Also, let me know if there's anything you personally want to see in this story. I will take all suggestions into account, (except for mpreg, or explicit smut which I am not comfortable writing, the latter mostly because I don't know how to). This is my first time writing such blatant h/c too, and let me know if you want it to reduce.

Another thing: next update will most likely be after the thirty-first, as my exams are coming (in four days, eep!) and I can't afford to be writing for too long. In the meantime, reviews will act as cheerleaders, so please review!


	3. Diagnosis

**A/N:** Hello!

So I know I wasn't supposed to update this soon, but I'm just really excited to get this up, and I couldn't stop myself. The next update will surely take a while, though, seeing my exams start tomorrow. Hehe.

I wrote this thing in two days. I'm surprised at myself, really. Anyway, thank you for the faves, follows, and the reviews, and please keep them coming, because they really spur me on! Reviews, especially! *tries to imitate Sam's puppy-dog eyes*.

Anyway, reviews, please please! :D

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**2. Diagnosis**

Dean didn't like the expression on Dr Pittman's face as she left the room. What had she deduced, and what as she hiding? Would Sam be all right? Was it bad?

He realised he was still been gripping Sam by the shoulders when Nurse Melody shook him out of his reverie by speaking to him. "Lay him on his side. The fluid is going to take a while to drain away."

He looked down at Sam, who stared at him with tired eyes and nodded his consent to be lay down. The nurse bent over at this and redid the strings on Sam's gown, allowing space for the tube. Dean then eased Sam gently onto the bed while adjusting the pillow for his brother. The tube sticking out of Sam's back looked nothing less than creepy. Sam uttered a small 'thanks' and shut his eyes, and Dean could hear his brother's cogwheels whirring at the doctor's words as well.

"You will experience pain from the incision and the sutures once the anaesthesia wears off," Nurse Melody said to Sam.

He opened an eye. "Incision?"

"How do you think she put the tube in?" she asked him. "Anyway, give me a tinkle if it gets bad, and I'll pump you up with analgesics."

"Thanks," said Sam, "but I doubt I'll need that." Dean realised with a pang that after all the stitches they'd had through their lives with nothing but a splash of whiskey and gritted teeth, Sam must not have felt this one at all. He wondered sometimes how messed up he and Sam had to be, for the kind of pain threshold that they possessed.

"_If_ you do need the medicines," the nurse insisted, "you can always ask."

"I will."

She made to leave the room, but Dean stood up from his place. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"You can talk right here," Sam spoke, before Melody could reply.

"Sure," she said, glancing at Sam, then Dean, looking like she wanted to avoid questions. "You can call me by my name, by the way," she told Dean. "I'm going to be here for Sam till you can take him home."

"So I can take him home."

She hesitated. "Yes, but I don't have the diagnosis, if that's what you're after. The doctor knows best."

"But…" Dean's eyes wandered to his brother for a moment, before they were trained on Melody again. "What did the doctor mean?"

Melody licked her lower lip as she fidgeted with the syringe in her hand. "Well, she just meant that Sam seems to have low sodium in his blood. That's what's been causing the nausea, and the body aches and tiredness that you told her about earlier."

"Are we supposed to worry about that?"

"Not really," the nurse replied, but she didn't meet eyes with Dean. "I'll get his serum electrolytes tested and put him on saline according to how deficient he is."

"That's it? What's the CT for?"

"Just further diagnosis," shrugged Melody.

Dean didn't believe her. He couldn't forget how Dr Pittman had reacted after aspirating the fluid in the syringe. It looked like something was wrong there. He pointed to the syringe and the tube poking out of Sam's back. "That normal? Is all the blood supposed to be there?"

She took a deep breath. "You should ask the doctor. I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to be talking about this. If there's a problem at any time, press on the call button." Before Dean could talk further, the nurse was out. He shut the door behind her and came back and sat next to Sam.

"I don't think the blood is supposed to be there, Dean," Sam breathed faintly. He coughed, and Dean reached for the basin, fingers clutching it just in case.

"I'll be fine," said Sam, rejecting the basin. He had been on cough medication since his admission into the hospital, and the bloody coughing had mercifully stopped. His voice was a little hoarse from the single cough, though. "You should get some sleep."

"Yeah, say that to yourself," Dean replied. He adjusted the blankets around Sam, being careful not to touch the tube. "You cold?"

"No," said Sam. "I'm okay, Dean. Go to sleep."

"_You_ sleep."

"All right. I'm tired anyway," Sam admitted, shutting his eyes, and Dean watched his brother for a while as his breaths evened out, and moved over to the armchair at the other end of the room. His eyes still on Sam, he yawned and settled himself against the cushion, just as the door opened and Melody entered the room again, followed by Dr Pittman. The moment he saw them, Dean got up from his armchair and went ahead to talk before they could wake Sam up.

"Well?"

"Sam is suffering from hyponatraemia," the doctor said. "The sodium levels in his serum are low — too low."

"So… you can put him on saline for it, can't you?"

"Yes, and we will," Dr Pittman replied quietly. "But I'm afraid that this, along with the blood found in the fluid from his pleural effusion isn't a very good combination." She looked sympathetic as she said this.

Dean's heart began to beat fast. "What is it?"

"Well, from just the fluid, my first diagnosis would be trauma — which fit, seeing he was coughing up blood."

"But…?"

She sighed. "I asked for the serum electrolytes to close in on a more accurate diagnosis. Trauma shouldn't cause sodium imbalance, and there's just another reason for all of Sam's symptoms."

"Which is?"

More sympathy radiated out of Dr Pittman as she spoke out the answer. "A malignancy."

Dean felt the ground shift from beneath his feet. He knew what that was doctor garb for.

_Cancer._

**~o~**

Sam woke up to a dim hospital room. Yawning, he licked his dry lips as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was still dark outside, as he could make out from the window. A single lamp illuminated his room, and the only sounds he could hear were the snores of his brother and the beeping of the cardiac monitor behind him.

The side he was sleeping on was sore, and the sensation on his back was returning. He could already feel the dragging pain from the sutures, and the sharp one from the incision. The nausea and the headache from earlier were almost gone, and he guessed he had received the extra bag of saline after all. However, Sam was quite thirsty at the moment.

He saw the covered glass of water on his nightstand and propped himself on an elbow as he reached out to it. His hand was shaking when he took it and put it to his mouth, but the cool water felt great against his dry throat. Just as he was trying to put it back, the glass fell from his hand and shattered.

It had barely touched the floor, when Sam heard Dean stirring. "S'mmy?"

"It's okay," Sam said. "Dropped the glass."

Dean, however, was already up from his armchair and beside Sam, on the stool. "How're you feelin'?"

"Better," said Sam. "I take it, they gave me the saline?"

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"Did they say anything about the bloody fluid?"

Dean hesitated. "No… they need a CT. They'll take it in the morning after they get you off the tube."

Something was off about the way Dean was talking, Sam realised. As he observed his brother's face closely, he could see the vestiges of worry lines across Dean's face. And his brother had put on that mask of his, albeit it was a rather thin mask this time. Sam swallowed. "What did she say, Dean?"

"Nothing," Dean insisted. "Now go back to sleep."

"You do realise that I'm going to find out, right? In the morning?"

Dean paused. "Let them give us a confirmed diagnosis. There's no use for worrying about what it _could_ be."

"So they told you what it could be."

Dean didn't reply to this. Instead he got up from his stool. "I just realised we left Crowley at the church. Do you think we should keep him there for someone else to find? I somehow don't think so." Dean was rambling.

"Dean." Sam's voice stopped him mid-sentence, and his shoulders slumped. "Dean," Sam repeated. "Tell me. What is it? Am I going to live—?"

"Of course you'll live, what kind of a question is that?!" Dean interrupted him angrily.

"Then why don't you tell me what they said?"

"I _told_ you, Sam, they need a CT to know what's wrong."

"Is that why you're acting so fucked up?"

"I'm just tired," said Dean, trying to sound reassuring. "I'll be fine. You go to sleep."

"You too."

"Nah, I gotta find Crowley."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're making no sense, you know that? Look, just tell me, man. I'm a full-grown person here, and I'm perfectly capable of handling the truth."

Dean shook his head at Sam. "It's nothing."

"Fine." Sam reached for the call button. "I'll ask Melody then. You go get Crowley. Keep him in the car. We can decide what to do once Cas gets here."

"Don't disturb Melody, Sam," said Dean weakly.

"Well, _you're_ not telling me…"

Dean stopped and turned around, his eyes catching Sam's and then dropping. There was silence and Sam found that his finger had been hovering over the call button for a while now. He dropped his hand. "Tell me," he compelled Dean.

Dean did not look at him. "They said it could be cancer."

His voice was so low, Sam wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been paying attention. His hand fisted the blanket around him and he blinked, trying to get his voice out. "What?"

"They said it might be cancer, okay?" said Dean, his own voice breaking. "You happy now?" Without another word, he left the room, Sam staring after his brother as the news sank in.

**~o~**

_"There are two types of malignancies that are known to cause pleural effusions like in Sam's case."_

_"And those are…?"_

_"Breast cancer. And lung cancer."_

_"But… but you've gotta confirm this, right? More tests? It isn't cancer until you confirm it?"_

_"We do have to get a CT first. And then a biopsy if we see something."_

_"Then Sammy has a chance."_

_"Yes…" A sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr—" she paused, "—Dean."_

Dean was in his Impala, keys sitting in the ignition as he numbly replayed the conversation in his mind. Cancer. _Fuck_, cancer. Did Sam have lung cancer, then? Because obviously, it couldn't be breast cancer.

Apparently not. It seemed that occasionally, in very rare cases, men could get breast cancer too. But that was too rare and Sam's symptoms didn't suggest it. If it was cancer, it was most probably lung cancer. However, this wasn't confirmed either, and there were 'further tests', as Dr Pittman put it.

_Further tests, my ass_, thought Dean. She was probably quite sure about the cancer, because she had looked too sympathetic. Plus, Sam just couldn't get off easy, or he'd spoil the Winchester legacy of always being in screwed-up situations.

"Cas…" Dean said involuntarily, but remembered that the angel wasn't coming. Well, technically, he was coming. Just not his usual way — he would arrive on a bus. Dean wondered how Castiel's memory was still intact after having lost his Grace, but he decided to put off the question for later.

He was at the church. He hated the sight of it, as he thought of the gruelling ride to the hospital with Sam in the backseat. It felt like the church's fault that Sam could have cancer. He probably would have been better off not coming here and doing the last trial.

Dean shook the thoughts away. What had happened had happened, and he couldn't change the past now. Yet, he'd always hate this church.

Dean parked the car and got out anyway — he had work to do. He then entered the dark church, flashlight in hand, and flicked it on, just in time to hear a voice. "Is that you, Moose?"

He shone his flashlight directly at Crowley's face.

"Ow!" exclaimed the demon, raising manacled hands to shield his eyes. "Watch where you point that thing, you twat!"

Dean didn't reply to him. Instead, he scraped off a part of the devil's trap under Crowley, and bent over to undo the manacle around his neck. "You're coming with me," he said. "I'm keeping the handcuffs on."

"Ah, charming," Crowley replied. "Are we going to cuddle as well?"

Dean was not in the mood for Crowley's snarky remarks, he decided, as he handcuffed the demon to himself. "Come on."

"Oh, what's the matter, Squirrel? That time of the month?"

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to hit you."

Crowley didn't reply to this, and Dean saw a calculating expression on his face as he sat the demon in the backseat, and undid his own handcuff, before locking it against the door handle at the back. He then shut the door and got behind the wheel.

"Is Moose doing better?"

Dean wouldn't have believed the speaker was Crowley, had he not seen the demon's lips move as he spoke the words. He had to admit, he had never expected to see Crowley like this — in this condition, but thinking of what Sam could be getting in return for changing Crowley…

He concentrated on the road and tried not to be sick. Besides, Crowley didn't need to know anything about Sam — partially cured or not.

Crowley kept quiet as Dean drove back to the hospital. Once he had reached there, he cracked open Crowley's window ever so slightly, and walked off into the hospital without another word to the demon.

When he entered his brother's room, he found Sam talking to Melody. The nurse had a concerned expression on her face, and they stopped their conversation when they saw Dean. "Okay," said Melody, patting Sam's shoulder and giving Dean a comforting look, before leaving the room. The younger Winchester's eyes then fell on Dean, who went ahead and took the stool.

"Sammy…" Dean began, "I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," Sam replied, before Dean could apologise. "I… I was just talking to Melody," he paused, puffing up his cheeks and blowing a thin stream of air. "Only two types of cancers, huh."

"Yeah," said Dean. "Remember how I always told you self-examination and comfortable bras were important?" He stopped, his own attempt at humour sickening him. Because it wasn't funny in any way.

"You okay?" he asked his brother sadly.

"No," said Sam. He hesitated. "Dean, if it's cancer—"

"Then we'll fight it." Dean deliberately said 'we' instead of 'you', mentioning himself in the fight because no, whatever this was, Sam wouldn't fight it alone. Dean would do it too. He would battle against the thing so hard, no illness would ever think of touching his brother again.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it. "T-Thanks…"

"Hey, no problem," said Dean, giving him a wan smile. "Get your rest now. We can worry about this when Dr Pittman actually diagnoses you." He reached forward and patted Sam's knee. "You'll be fine, Sammy."

Sam nodded, before shutting his eyes and drifting away again and Dean got back to his armchair trying not to let all the worries cloud his mind as he shut his eyes to sleep.

**~o~**

Castiel woke up with a jerk when his stop was announced. He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He was tired. So tired. He would be very happy to sleep some more, but he was at his destination, and he had to proceed to the hospital from here.

The sun was just rising and Castiel yawned when he got out of the bus. Yawning. A human act which indicated tiredness. Yes, he was sure he was tired. But there was Dean. He'd be seeing Dean soon, and that caused a renewed sensation of hope in him.

Castiel walked to the hospital from the bus stop. He asked for Sam Winchester at the reception, but they didn't have a Sam Winchester listed anywhere. He realised that Dean might have used one of the aliases, and just asked for a Sam. Thankfully, there was only one patient named Sam at the hospital, and Castiel headed straight for the room indicated by the friendly woman.

The door to the room was shut and Castiel opened it, only remembering to knock after he had already stepped in. But that rapidly filed out of his mind when he saw the sight inside the room. Sam was fast asleep on his side, a tube coming from his back and draining bloody fluid with it, along with a few tubes attached to his hand. A monitor beeped serenely behind him. And then Castiel's eyes travelled to Dean, who was curled up in an armchair in the corner. He licked his lips, approaching the other man.

"Dean."

**~o~**

"Dean."

_Dean was dreaming of a Wendigo hunt from his teenage. Sam was sleeping in the car, while he and his father were in a woods a mile away, chasing after the creature. _

_"Pass me the flare gun, son," said John._

"Dean."

_"This thing is a speedy son of a bitch…"_

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Dean, it's me."

He recognised the voice… he recognised the voice…

The dream was gone, and his father vanished. Suddenly, the voice that was calling out to him echoed in his head, and he said the name before opening his eyes.

"Cas?"

Castiel didn't reply, and when Dean opened his eyes, he found the angel — _former_ angel sitting before him on the stool that Dean had occupied hours ago. Blue eyes looked into green, and Dean saw the pain in there, his pleasure at seeing Castiel alive and well waning, replaced by the feeling of his heart coming up to his throat. Castiel was just alive. He was not well by any means.

What did you say to an angel who had just lost his Grace?

Castiel looked pale and tired, and there were tear tracks on his cheeks. His hair was tousled and his trenchcoat was dirty too. Dean felt sorry for the other man. He glanced at Sam before turning back to Castiel. "How was your bus ride?"

"Tiring."

Dean hesitated. "Are you hungry?"

Castiel nodded, his eyes wandering away from Dean as he blinked a few times. Dean stood up from his place and went over to the other man, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

Castiel just shook his head, refusing to look at Dean, and raising the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes. Dean sighed, squeezing his shoulder. "Cas…"

Castiel kept looking down, and Dean was at a loss for words. He spotted the stool that the doctor had used for Sam's procedure earlier and left Castiel's side for a moment to go get it. Then he set it next to Castiel and sat down, putting his hand back on Castiel's shoulder, and patting it lightly. "Cas… hey… it's okay."

He had said all of ten words to the guy in the last five minutes, but Dean really had no clue how to make Castiel feel better. He could sense Castiel shaking slightly under his hand, and he started to rub the shoulder gently. "Let's get you breakfast, come on. It's okay. You're okay." He'd been saying this a lot in the last few hours.

Castiel shook his head and reached to wipe his face again. "He betrayed me," he said in a shaky voice. "I should have realised…"

"It happens to the best of us," said Dean. "It's not your fault."

"_Heaven_ has fallen, Dean," said Castiel, looking up at him. "All because of _me_. I believed Metatron. I went with his plan." His voice was loud, and Dean cringed.

"Shh," he said. "Sam's asleep, Cas. Let's talk in the cafeteria."

He was, however, too late, for Sam was already stirring at the sound. "Dean…" he muttered, his eyes still shut, while his hands grasped at the sheets around him and Dean got up and reached his bed in an instant.

"Hey, don't move, Sammy, the tube is still there," he said, holding his brother in his lateral position. "I'm right here."

"Mmm." Sam opened his eyes. "Water."

"Sure." Dean reached for the jug on the table and filled a glass, handing it to the younger Winchester. Sam propped himself on an elbow and accepted it. That was when he saw Castiel.

"Cas?"

Dean moved so his brother could get a better view of the former angel. "Yeah," he said, "Look who's here."

Sam's expression changed from happiness to sympathy when he remembered what had transpired last night. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Sam," said Castiel, swiping away the residual tears before getting up and walking to the other man. "How do you do?"

"Uh…" Sam gestured to the IV bags and the drainage tube. "A little screwed up, but okay."

"Have they told you what it could be?" Castiel asked him.

At this, Sam met Dean's eyes for a moment, but then he shook his head. "Not yet. They'll let us know today, I guess." He paused. "How are you?"

"Human," said Castiel.

"I'm sorry, man."

"Thank you." Castiel looked down. "I suppose I will recover." He didn't sound like he believed his own words.

"You will," Sam smiled. "You've just gotta give it time."

"And while you're at it," Dean added. "We'll look for a way to get your Grace back, okay?"

"I just wish that were possible," Castiel replied sadly. "Unfortunately, Metatron used it for a spell, and it may have been destroyed."

Dean hated the hopelessness in the former angel's face as he spoke. There weren't many times that Castiel got this way, and Dean had certainly never seen him so… broken.

"We don't know that for sure, Cas," he said consolingly, wishing he could make the other man feel better. "So we'll look for it as long as we have to. Kevin is on his way to translating the angel tablet, we might be able to convince Crowley to fight on our side, and like always, we'll pull through. Right?"

Castiel licked his lips, but he didn't seem convinced. "Right."

"Good," said Dean, and put his hand back on Castiel's shoulder. "Let's get you breakfast, now. You look like you're starving."

"I'm just hungry, I won't starve."

"Okay, Webster's dictionary, let's go," said Dean, steering him to the door. "Sam, you okay by yourself for a while?"

"Yeah, Dean," said Sam. "You go eat."

"You want me to get you something from the cafeteria?"

"No, my breakfast will be here soon. You and Cas should eat."

"Okay. I shouldn't be more than ten minutes. But you call me if there's anything. _Anything_ at all, okay?"

"_Yes, Dean_," Sam repeated.

"And if you need anything—"

"I'll call Melody."

"No, you call _me_ first."

"Sure, Mom."

"Shut up." Dean turned to Castiel. "Come on, Cas."

"But I don't understand," Castiel was saying. "Does he not realise you're not his mother? He might have suffered brain dama—"

"Cas, are you coming?"

"Yes," Castiel replied, before following Dean out of the room.

**~o~**

The doctor came back to take off Sam's drainage tube a while after Dean and Castiel returned from the cafeteria. Dean offered his armchair to the former angel, who gratefully curled into it, falling asleep almost at once when he did so.

"He seems very tired," said Sam, wincing as Dr Pittman shot him with some more local anaesthestic, so she could close the wound she had created. '

"Don't move, Sam," she said, and Dean held on to Sam's shoulders tighter to keep him steadier.

"He'll be fine," Dean replied to Sam, hoping he was right.

"You think?"

"Well, he is going to need help adjusting, but…"

"Dean…" Sam paused, and lowered his voice. "He'll get tired, hungry, sick. He can't smite or heal anymore. He'll need a car or a bus to get to places and a cell phone to talk to us—"

"Yeah, well, he'll just have to get used to it," Dean said, noticing the slightly bewildered expression on Dr Pittman's face.

"You think it will be that easy?"

"Well, I'm hoping," said Dean. "He seems okay now, but when has it ever been that easy? At this moment, though, I'll just be happy if by some godforsaken miracle, you don't have cancer."

**~o~**

Sam couldn't keep his heart from beating fast as he lay on the patient table, the CT scanner humming as it took shots of his chest. Dr Pittman worked silently in the small office enclosed by glass. She hadn't said a word since asking Sam if he was comfortable, after he had been made to lie down on the table.

"Okay, Sam, we're done there," said Dr Pittman about ten seconds later. Sam let out the breath he was holding, and let his arms come down to his chest. Melody came with a wheelchair and helped him onto it.

"Dr Pittman will come to your room with the results," she said to Sam.

"You know what's wrong yet?" Sam asked her, but she didn't reply. He craned his neck to get a view of the doctor, but her expression was noncommittal. He didn't know what to make of it. The nurse didn't reply to him, and just took him back to the room.

"Well?" Dean asked, when Sam was wheeled into his room.

"She said she'd drop by with the results in a while," replied Sam. He stood up from the wheelchair and Dean helped him to the bed when Melody left.

"Fingers crossed, then," the elder Winchester sighed; making sure Sam was comfortable, then glancing at Castiel, who was still asleep. "You think we should tell Sleeping Beauty?"

"Let's wait till we get an actual diagnosis," Sam replied, pulling the blankets around himself and trying not to get nervous.

"Yeah, you're right," Dean replied. "No point spreading impending good news." He sighed and took the stool again. "Just be okay, man."

"It's not in my hands, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied. "I just…" he ran a hand through his hair. "Why can't we ever catch a break?"

Sam chuckled. "We both know the answer to that, Dean. We're the Winchesters."

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "I just hope that whatever this is… it's curable."

There was silence. Sam's stomach twisted as he waited for the doctor to come back. A gruelling five minutes passed and he watched Dean fidget about, pulling at this and that, tugging at Sam's blanket every ten seconds, playing with the tear in his jeans, until…

"Sam?"

Sam's heart almost jumped out of his chest when he heard Dr Pittman's voice. She was at the door, and behind her stood an elderly man — another doctor. As they entered the room, Sam read the other man's name tag.

_Dr A Tanner, MD_

He was a specialist. Oh God, that was never good.

"This is Dr Tanner," said Dr Pittman unnecessarily, switching on the light box and hanging up the CT scan beside the X-Ray from the previous day. "He will explain your condition to you."

Dr Tanner took the stool next to the younger Winchester. "Sam," he said kindly. "How do you feel?"

"Uh… okay," said Sam. "What's wrong with me?"

His expression was grim. "You presented to us with the breathlessness, chest pain and bloody coughing. And you've had some transient symptoms like high-grade fever, nausea, body pain, fatigue, loss of appetite and weakness, correct?"

"The weakness wasn't transient," Dean replied to the doctor, before Sam could reply. "He's been having it for weeks."

"Okay," said the doctor. He turned back to Sam. "Any other symptoms you'd like to add?"

"No," Sam said quietly.

The doctor nodded. "Sam…" he paused. "We've found a mass in your left lung." He walked to the CT and pointed to a spot with his finger — a white ball-like structure in a sea of black.

"See that?"

"Yes," Sam replied, his voice barely coming out. Beside him, Dean had stiffened.

"Now, look, we still need to get more tests done—"

"More tests, my _ass_!" Dean exclaimed suddenly, getting up from his place. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Castiel wake up. "Why don't you just say it straight?" Dean continued.

"Because, Mr Wilson, it could be a number of things."

"Yeah, but from what I understand, the bloody fluid thing in Sam's lungs only happens—"

"— if it's pneumonia, tuberculosis, trauma, or cancer," the doctor replied. "And Sam's symptoms point towards cancer the most, but we still need to diagnose further."

"What else do you need to diagnose?" Dean asked him. "Isn't it enough that he has cancer? Does he have to have some other disease—?"

"Dean," Sam interrupted him, glancing at Castiel, who looked shocked. "Let the doctor talk."

"No, you _don't_ have cancer, Sammy," Dean said to his brother. "You're not dying. This is all a fraud. They're trying to con us!"

"Dean," Sam raised pleading eyes to his brother. "Please."

Dean looked at him, and Sam saw the pain in his expression when he sat back down and reached out to grip his younger brother by the forearm. Sam reached his other hand to pat Dean's lightly, and turned to the doctor. "I'm sorry, Dr Tanner… please continue."

Dr Tanner looked sympathetic. "I know this is not the best news, and I understand why you are reacting in this way. But I'd just like to say — the further tests are to estimate the type and extent of the cancer. There are two types — non-small cell lung carcinoma, or NSCLC and small cell lung carcinoma — SCLC. Both have different treatment regimes, different ways of spreading around the body and separate prognoses. So these tests are very important."

"Okay, so which one has a better prognosis?" Dean asked the doctor.

"NSCLC," the other man replied. "But it all depends on the stage and Sam's response to the treatment we offer."

"What tests are you going to conduct on him, then?"

"A number of them," the doctor replied. "Another CT, an MRI of his brain, organ function tests, a biopsy and a bronchoscopy."

Dean cringed. "When are you starting the tests?"

"As soon as you will allow us to."

Dean looked at Sam and squeezed his forearm. "Whenever you're ready, okay?"

Sam turned to the doctor. "As soon as possible, then."

"All right," said Dr Tanner. "I'll be in charge of your health starting now, okay? You can ask me any questions."

Sam turned to Dr Pittman, who gave him a sad smile. "Thank you, doctor," he said to her. The woman nodded, and left the room, leaving the brothers and the former angel alone with Dr Tanner, who, Sam realised, was obviously an oncologist.

"I'll send the nurse along when we are ready," said Dr Tanner, exiting the room.

Sam let out a deep breath as the doctor left, feeling Dean's fingernails dig into the flesh of his forearm as the other man stared at a spot on the wall, apparently deep in thought. Castiel, who had been quietly watching from the armchair all this time, stood up and sat on Sam's bed. Dean looked up at him.

"Cas, maybe you should go back—"

"I'm staying right here."

"It could take a day or two."

"Doesn't matter. I can help you and Sam."

Sam saw Dean's lips twitch slightly before he looked down. "Thanks, Cas."

**~o~**

For the next day or so, all Sam remembered was being wheeled into, and out of this test and that, being pricked here and there, and being made to drink things. They collected samples of every single bodily fluid from him and each time, he only saw the same grim expression on Dr Tanner's face. He wondered how bad it was.

He didn't have to wait long for an answer as on the second day, the doctor came to visit Sam with all the results. Sam had been asleep at the time, his chest, his back, and every possible part of his body sore from the medical prodding, and Dean woke him up from the disturbed slumber, looking incredibly guilty about it.

"Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes to see Dr Tanner standing over his bed and Dean raised it to a reclining position for him. Castiel seemed to have gone for a meal, or to the john, or something, but in the last twenty-four hours, Dean and Castiel had made sure that at least one person was in the room with Sam. He appreciated it, especially as he didn't like being alone with his thoughts right now.

The doctor kept a file on Sam's bed. "Sam, before I say anything else, I want you to know that we will give you utmost care, okay? We will fight along with you, tooth and nail."

_Liar_, Sam thought. The only person who would truly fight with him was Dean. But he nodded at the doctor.

"So, according to your tests…" the doctor sighed. "You have extensive-stage SCLC."

It was like a brick falling into his stomach. SCLC was the one with the bad prognosis, wasn't it? Sam licked his lips, trying to stop himself from trembling. Dean saw this, and a hand was immediately on Sam's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

"Extensive stage…" Sam said. "What stage is that?"

The doctor hesitated. "Stage four."

Sam almost laughed at this. Stage four. The worst of the worst. Great. So much for coming out of that church alive… he was going to die anyway…

"What are the chances he'll make it?" Dean asked the doctor quietly, interrupting Sam's thoughts. Sam almost laughed at that too.

_Don't you see, Dean? I'm not making it from here! I'm dead. I'm gone!_

The doctor sighed again. "With his condition… and the fact that there's no metastasis in his organs… I'll give him a year… maximum."

_A year, _Sam thought._ Beat that, Winchester! Your life just got crappy again._

* * *

**A/N:** So who expected that diagnosis? I'd already like to apologise to all the Sammy girls/ Sam fans out there because he's going to have one hell of a time with this. And I'd like to assure you that Castiel's troubles aren't over either.

Reviews are awesome! Please review!


	4. Hopes and Fears

**A/N: **My exams are not done yet — I have one last paper in a few hours (ob/gyn, haha), but I'm really, really just bored and I decided to update. So here's the next chapter! Hope you enjoy!

And have I mentioned how much I hate the pronoun problems in writing slash, or pretty much anything with too many people of the same gender? It's a real pain. Also just wanted to say — other diagnoses for Sam's symptoms are leukaemia and aplastic anaemia. But we all know that in the actual show, it's probably something supernatural. Which is why this is AU in the first place. And other reasons… *slightly evil grin*

Anyway, hope you like this chapter! Thank you for all the faves, follows and reviews, and please keep them coming! I will respond to all reviews, and will also love you forever. :)

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**3. Hopes and Fears**

"I… need fresh air."

Sam barely registered his brother getting up from the stool and exiting the room as he leaned against the bed, his head spinning with all the information he had just received from the doctor.

Dr Tanner had spoken about the cancer, and Sam could vaguely remember the details. SCLC was the more notorious of the two types of lung cancer. It spread fast, symptoms usually began eight to ten weeks before diagnosis of the disease, and most patients presented with stage three or stage four of the cancer when they arrived at the hospital — both categorised under extensive stage SCLC. The median survival was up to a year with treatment. Also, the most common cause of this cancer was smoking.

It wasn't fair, thought Sam. He had never touched a cigarette in his life. He had tried to_ save the world_, to shut off demons in Hell, and this was what he was getting in return. He didn't deserve this. Why did it have to be this way?

He must have drifted off again — he had no idea, because when he woke up, Dean was rummaging through Sam's duffel and pulling out clean jeans and a shirt. He then explained to Sam that he had spoken to Dr Tanner, and requested for the treatment to be continued at Lebanon, in a hospital that was closer to the bunker. Dr Tanner knew an oncologist at Webster County General, and he would send over Sam's information to the other doctor.

Castiel had heard of the news by this time too — Dean had told him, no doubt, and the former angel did try to be as comforting as possible without lying.

"I have spoken to the souls of several cancer-inflicted people in the past," he said. "They have assured me that the intense pain was fairly brief before death came along."

"Thanks, Cas," said Sam, trying to look comforted by the thought. By this time, Dean had thrust Sam's clothes into his hands.

"Change up. We're leaving as soon as possible."

Sam obeyed him and as soon as he was out of the hospital gown in into regular clothes, Dean signed the discharge papers, and they were on their way to the Impala.

"Ah, about time," said a voice when Dean unlocked the car. "I thought my legs would fall off from the lack of circulation."

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn't noticed Crowley in the backseat. Beside him, Castiel seemed surprised as well. "What is Crowley doing here?"

"He's mostly cured," Sam explained to the other man. He turned to Dean. "I didn't know that you seriously brought him back from the church."

"Well, I thought better us than Abaddon," Dean reasoned. "He could be useful."

"I'm right here, you know," Crowley spoke. "And I'm not exactly appreciative of having been locked down like this."

"Yeah? Tough," said Dean, getting behind the wheel as Sam sat beside him. Castiel reluctantly seated himself at the back with the demon. Dean turned to Crowley. "You're not hungry, are you?"

"No," he said. "I'm still a demon."

"Good, because this is awkward enough," Dean replied. He turned on the ignition. "Gosh, I can't wait to get back to the bunker. It's been a shitty few days."

**~o~**

Kevin was rather shaky and on edge when Sam and Dean reached the bunker. When the teenager saw Crowley again, he flinched and rushed to pick up one of the swords from the library.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

"Relax," said Dean, raising a hand to show Kevin that Crowley was handcuffed to him. "We're putting him in the dungeon."

"You are?" Crowley asked him. "You wouldn't seriously—"

"Yeah, we would," Dean replied, smirking at him. "Consider it repayment for all the crap you've given us."

"But – but…" Crowley sighed. "I shouldn't have done that. I _know_ I shouldn't, and I'm ready to do anything, _anything_ else to pay for my sins. But not this. Don't lock me up!"

"What's wrong with him?" Kevin asked, sword still held high.

"He's mostly cured," Sam replied.

"Yeah, but he's still a demon," said Dean, before anyone could begin to sympathise. "He stays in the dungeon. Come on."

He began push Crowley in the way of the dungeon, and the demon turned to Sam, his eyes beseeching. "Moose? You won't tell them? I've changed!"

Sam shook his head. "Still doesn't make up for what you did."

The demon gave up and let Dean lead him into his prison. Once he had locked Crowley up, Dean came back to the library to see Sam, Castiel and Kevin sitting at one of the tables, deep in conversation.

"I'm sorry about your Grace, Cas," Kevin was saying. He looked up at Dean on hearing his footsteps. "I got some takeout when you said you guys would be returning tonight. It's in the kitchen."

"Thanks, Kev," said Dean, and he made his way to the kitchen, followed by Kevin. The teenager had bought burgers and a six-pack, and he helped Dean carry the food items to the library. Once everyone was settled in with a burger and beer each, Kevin spoke again.

"Dean?"

He looked up at the teenager. "Yeah, Kev?"

"I'm really sorry I got pissed at you the other day—"

"Nah, it's all right. Don't apologise," said Dean, managing a small smile.

The boy looked down and nodded, and then spoke to Sam. "Are you better now?"

Dean realised that they hadn't told Kevin about Sam's condition yet. He turned to his brother who looked so pale and unwell as he nibbled at his burger, his eyes sunken and his appetite basically destroyed. What would the chemotherapy do to Sam if the disease in itself was so bad?

He didn't want to think about it. Sam had an appointment with a Dr Greene at West County General the next day, and they'd be briefed on Sam's treatment plan there. Dean was aware of the many side-effects and problems that arose from chemotherapy, and he could only hope at this moment, that Sam wouldn't suffer as much as people seemed to suffer in all those movies and books. That was fiction, right? Drama had to be there in fiction. It was exaggerated. Sam, on the other was real and was receiving real chemotherapy, and maybe the non-dramatised version of it wouldn't be so bad?

"I've been better," Sam had replied to Kevin. "I have another doctor's appointment tomorrow."

"Have they figured out what it is?" Kevin asked him.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Yeah. It's –" he licked his lips. "It's actually cancer."

Kevin dropped his burger and a slice of tomato escaped the layers. "_Cancer?_"

"Small cell lung cancer… or something. Stage four." Sam was being freakishly calm about it, but Dean knew of the havoc in his little brother's head.

Kevin was very shocked. "You're – you're kidding me, right?"

"Uh… no, actually… I have an appointment at a local hospital tomorrow so we can figure out treatment plans."

Kevin picked up his burger, eyes still widened in shock. "But they can cure it, can't they? I-It has a cure? A good five-year survival rate?"

"Yeah, really good. One per cent," Sam said sarcastically. "Quite good," he repeated, and Dean felt goosebumps rise all over his body at Sam's tone. "They say I have a year, though."

"I'm – I'm s-sorry," said Kevin. "I… if… Sam…" He evidently didn't know what else to say.

"It's all right, Kev," said Sam, putting his burger down. "I'm okay." He pushed away his plate and stood up. "I think I'll turn in."

"At least finish the burger," Dean told him, looking up at his brother.

"No… I'm not hungry," he replied, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'll be fine," he added unconvincingly as he walked away and headed towards the bedrooms.

Dean looked down at his own half-eaten burger, and then at Kevin's shocked face.

"I think he was lying about being 'fine'," Castiel provided from his place. "I mean, clearly—"

"I think I'll turn in too," Dean said, interrupting his friend. He picked up his and Sam's plates, trying to ignore the nausea that threatened to bring the burger back up. "See you guys in the morning," he said again, before rushing away to do the one thing he could at this moment.

**~o~**

Sam lay on his bed with the covers pulled around him, staring into the darkness of his room. He ran his fingers through the wound left on his palm by the knife blade as he had just been about to cure Crowley. A small part of him wished, right now, that he'd done it. Because, honestly, what use did _not_ doing it have for anyone? He hadn't wanted to die — he still didn't want to, but at this moment, after everything, all they had were pissed off fallen angels walking the earth. Plus, the demons had just lost their king, and there was scope for havoc everywhere without someone controlling them, especially with Abaddon on the loose. On top of everything, it wasn't as though not completing the trial had done much to save Sam's life. He was still dying; only a year later than what was slated.

It would have been easier if Sam had just completed the trial. The way things were going now, once again, Dean was going to give up everything else just to be there for Sam, and Sam really just wanted Dean to enjoy a life without having to worry, or take care of someone else. For the last few years, with the absence of his soul, and consequently his mental breakdown, and now the illness from the trials, Sam had only given Dean countless opportunities to worry. He was slowly turning into a burden for his brother, whether Dean realised it or not. And for the next year, Sam was going to get worse and eventually die, and as if everything else in Dean's life hadn't been bad already, the elder Winchester would also have to watch Sam die in slow motion.

If the illness wasn't fair to Sam, it was even worse for Dean, he realised. Dean didn't deserve to give up his life and freedom for someone else like this — most of all for Sam, who hadn't even found the decency to try and look for him when he had disappeared on him last year. And Dean had said that there was nothing he would put in front of Sam, and Sam knew he was so dead serious about it, if the need arose, he would most definitely give up everything — _everything_ to be there for Sam through his illness. And that wasn't fair to Dean.

Just as the thoughts wisped in and out of his mind, there was a mild knock on the door. "Sammy?"

He didn't reply. He didn't want to talk to Dean. He didn't want Dean to ask him if everything was all right, because it so fucking _wasn't_. The knocks repeated themselves.

"I know you're awake, Sam," said Dean again. "I'm coming in."

He remained under his blanket, in the same position even as the door opened, and Dean let himself in. "Sam?"

In a moment, there was a hand pulling back Sam's blankets. Dean reached forward and switched on the lamp, and Sam found himself blinking up at his brother who held two plates in his hand, one of which Sam recognised as his own, with the barely-eaten burger.

"Sit up," said Dean. "Eat."

"Not hungry," Sam muttered, refusing to meet eyes with his brother.

"You have to eat, Sam. Going hungry won't sort anything."

"Easy for you to say." Sam paused. "You should have let me die, Dean."

His brother was quiet at this, and taking the opportunity, Sam continued. "Leaving that trial halfway hasn't helped, you know. I'm still dying."

Dean sighed. "Sam… you're not dying, okay? We'll figure this out."

_"How?"_

"We're in a nerd home here. They have books and files on anything and everything. I'm sure—"

"Reversing death isn't that easy, Dean," said Sam. "Most of it includes black magic or demon deals. Even if angels could heal, Cas stated long ago that my condition was way too bad to be healed miraculously."

Dean didn't say anything, and Sam finally mustered the courage to look into his brother's devastated eyes. Dean knew as well as he did that this was probably the real deal — that Sam was mostly going away for good this time, and that there was no way back.

"I'm not letting you die," said Dean anyway, the determination in his voice incomparable to anything else. Sam took another glance at his brother and sat up slowly in his bed as Dean spoke on. "I'll find a way to keep you here, alive and healthy. I promise you that. But you have to promise me something first, Sam."

There was something about the conviction in Dean's voice — something about the surety of the way he was talking. Sam didn't _really_ want to die — he just thought he should have died, for all the trouble his condition would now cause. But having Dean be so reassuring… he didn't want Dean to look for ways to save him, abandoning everything else, but he also didn't want to die. Not like this.

"Okay," he said quietly. "What?"

Dean's green eyes found his and remained fixed on him. "You have to fight from your side too."

**~o~**

"Mr Wilson… Sam."

Dr Greene skimmed through Sam's file, soft brown eyes moving over the test results and other details. She looked up at Dean. "You're his brother?"

"Dean Wilson."

"Okay," said the doctor, shutting the file and looking up at the brothers with interlinked fingers. "The first thing you should know about this cancer is that it spreads and worsens very quickly, which means, we need to start treatment as soon as possible. Preferably this Monday."

Monday was two days away, but Sam agreed to it. "I'm ready."

"That's good," the doctor replied. "I'll draw up a schedule for you, then. But before we start, I want you know about, and expect a few things from this treatment. First of all, it doesn't matter what we do, and how we treat you. You should have the willpower to fight this. You understand?"

"Yes, Dr Greene," said Sam.

She smiled encouragingly. "We're all here to help, and could be times when you might need help. From me — from your brother. At that point, I don't want you to try and be a hero. Come straight up and admit to your requirements, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. If you're willing enough, you can fight anything. I have seen a few miraculous recoveries myself. So no giving up in between. It will get bad, it will get hard — for you, your family members — but you have to hold on."

"I will."

The doctor's eyes sparkled as she turned to Dean. "That's quite a brother you have there. Most patients I get lose their determination just after being diagnosed."

Dean smiled fondly at Sam. "What can I say, Doc? My brother has always seen the light at the end of the tunnel." He didn't talk about how Sam had almost given up just the previous day, and how it was a promise to Dean that was holding him up right now.

"That's fantastic attitude," agreed Dr Greene. "Now," her eyes were on Sam again. "Shall we discuss your treatment?"

Sam nodded, and she continued. "Small cell lung cancer, as Dr Tanner must have told you, is inoperable in itself."

"Yes, he said that."

"So that leaves us with chemotherapy. You're lucky enough not to need therapeutic radiation, because of the lack of metastasis into organs, but you will still receive prophylactic radiation at the end of your chemotherapy, depending on how you have progressed. That is mainly to prevent the cancer from spreading to your brain."

Sam swallowed. "It could get to my brain?"

"Unfortunately, that is a risk," the doctor replied. "Which is basically why we're offering you the prophylaxis. But before that, you will have chemotherapy. For SCLC, we offer combination chemotherapy. It consists of two drugs: cisplatin and etoposide. The combination in itself is abbreviated as 'PE'.

"This combination will be given to you for four to six cycles, depending on how much you need it. Each cycle will be three weeks apart, meaning you'll be doing this on an outpatient basis. You will have one day of cisplatin with etoposide, and then two extra days of just etoposide — so that's totally three days of chemo every twenty-one days. Then we let your body recover, and start the next cycle."

"I understand."

"And as effective as these drugs are," said the doctor, "they're also basically poison to your body. This means you'll be experiencing quite a few adverse effects — nausea and vomiting being the most prominent ones. We will inject you with anti-emetics before the beginning of your sessions, and even give you anti-nausea and vomiting prescription to take home with you, but cisplatin is one of the more emetogenic drugs that we have, so you might find the prophylaxis less effective. The drugs we give are sure to curb majority of the vomiting, and probably even all of it, but it's not uncommon to still have upto four or five episodes a day. However, I assure you that it won't be as bad as it could be without the anti-emetics.

"The nausea and vomiting from cisplatin lasts about a week, and that from etoposide lasts about five days. The symptoms will wane as the days pass, and you shouldn't be experiencing as much trouble after about a week.

"Apart from this, another major adverse effect would be hair loss, but I assure you that they will all grow back once we finish chemo. You will also have fatigue and dizziness, and maybe even mouth sores, abdominal cramps and diarrhoea, but you will be fine once we finish a few cycles. Plus, like I said, we will give your body time to recover between two cycles, and you should be better once ten days or so have passed from the administration."

Sam drank in her words, glancing at Dean, who looked a little disturbed and horrified at the side effects. They sounded terrible, Sam thought, but he wanted to fight this. He had to fight this. For his brother, if for no one else. And also for himself, because he really didn't want to die.

"I will give you a printed list of all the other side-effects that you can expect, but I want you to keep a check on the intensity of them," the doctor continued. "You throw up more than five times in a day, you come straight to me. You spike a fever that's more than a hundred degrees, you come right here. There are other things, and everything will be there in the list I give you. Keep it with you, and monitor yourself carefully."

"I will."

"Apart from this," she said, "There are many ways to keep your adverse effects to a minimum. I will instruct you about those too, and help you through this."

Sam nodded again, trying to remember everything that she had said. Was there any part of his life that was ever going to be normal again?

The doctor sighed. "You need to watch yourself, Sam. You need to eat; you need to get small amounts of exercise every day. And you need to do this without me or your brother having to persuade you. Don't think of this as a terminal illness or a death sentence, okay? Because I believe that there is nothing better than will power to fight a disease."

Sam could feel a lump in his throat as fear rose in him. The whole path — the entire thing as Dr Greene narrated it sounded scary — terrifying, in fact. He looked at Dean again, who was nodding vigorously, as though all of Dr Greene's instructions were for him. _We'll fight this_, Dean had said, and Sam would never forget that, because he was one of the few people who knew how serious Dean was, when he'd said that.

**~o~**

"Hey, you okay?"

Sam was quiet at Dean's question. Because, what could he say? That 'not okay' didn't even cover it? That he wanted to run, hide, get away from this world, and enter another one, where he wouldn't have to suffer; where he didn't have a death sentence upon him? That he wanted to live so bad; he had wanted normal so bad, and now, his life, and the last remnants of his normalcy — his physical health — were being ripped away from him, and it was as far from 'okay' as possible?

It was as though Dean could read Sam's mind. The elder Winchester gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I'll get you out of this, Sam," he assured his brother for the second time in two days.

Sam turned to him, as Dean continued. "Like I said last night, I'll get you out of this. I'm sure there's some way — some spell, some method, _something_ to heal you hidden in one of the books we have. I'll look for it, and I don't care if I become a geek like you in the process. I _won't_ let you die."

_Thanks, Dean,_ Sam said in his mind, his throat so constricted that he couldn't even say it out loud, but he knew Dean had heard it when the latter reached over and patted Sam's shoulder reassuringly.

**~o~**

Dean was aware that his relief at finding that Castiel relatively was all right would be short lived, but he allowed himself to be at peace with it as long as it lasted. He even let himself believe that maybe Castiel wasn't going to suffer lastingly from whatever had happened. Maybe he would really adjust and recover.

Dean couldn't have been more wrong.

It was late on Sunday night. Dean was in the library, poring over a thick, leather book full of ancient spells for all sorts of things. It was really old, and it didn't look like indexes were popular during that time period. Sam had gone to sleep early after nervously prodding about at his dinner, and Dean had pushed Castiel to get some sleep too — as the angel was still ridiculously tired from the loss of his Grace. Plus, he was starting to get more and more withdrawn and he hadn't gotten out of the bunker since they'd been back, until Dean had forced him to come out and get some regular clothes for himself. Dean could smell trouble in the way Castiel was behaving, but he decided he didn't want to poke at it.

That night, Kevin had offered to help with the research, but Dean asked the kid to get some sleep as well, to compensate for everything he'd been through while translating the demon tablet. Kevin had read some segments of the angel tablet, but nothing there had mentioned anything about Metatron's spell, and they'd decided to put off translating the angel tablet until later because at this moment, it was of no use with just one angel in Heaven.

Dean was reading through an ancient text on some debilitating illness that didn't have a name, but had symptoms, and was trying to match it with Sam's condition, when he heard footsteps from the hallway. Someone entered the war room. Dean looked up, to see Castiel make his way towards him, looking odd without his trenchcoat and in sweats instead.

He raised an eyebrow at the other man. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean."

"You were supposed to be sleeping."

"I was, but I woke up and thought that you might need help."

"Thanks, but I'm perfectly fine on my own," said Dean, sipping his beer. "You can go back to sleep."

"I want to help, Dean," said Castiel and came forward, seating himself on a chair beside Dean's. "I _need_ to do this."

Dean suddenly realised what this was about. It was the chain of guilt cycles that he was so familiar with. Castiel thought Heaven had fallen because of him, and he was trying to prove his worth by helping elsewhere.

"Cas," he said. "I've got this. You've been tired. You get some rest and when you get better, I promise you can help."

"No, Dean," said the former angel. "You don't understand. I must help. _Now_."

"Cas…"

"I'm going read another book while you search this one," declared Castiel, before heading to the bookshelves. Dean sighed and watched him look amongst the volumes on the shelf and finally draw out another book like Dean's — thick and ancient.

There was silence as the former angel re-joined Dean at the table. Dean watched Castiel read for a while, before lowering his eyes to the fine print of his own book. They went on, for an hour, or more, and Dean was now desperately looking for something — anything that resembled Sam's condition. That was when he heard the sniffle.

It was so quiet, so small, that he would have missed it, had the bunker not been dead silent. He looked up, to see Castiel desperately wiping at his blue eyes, which were evidently wet. Oh God, what now?

"Cas…" Dean moved his chair closer to the other man. He took the book from his hands, and shut it. "Okay," he said, putting it away, "Talk to me."

Castiel tried to take back his book, but Dean held it away. "Come on, man," he said. "Tell me what's going on. I know you feel guilty, and I know it's bad, and believe me, I understand, because I've felt the same way more than once. But you've gotta talk to me. What's wrong? Did something happen just now, after dinner?" The former angel had probably discovered another part of his humanness that he didn't like.

Castiel shook his head. "I j-just tried to sleep," he said. "And…" he sniffed again. "Dreams…"

Dean bit his lip. Castiel had had a nightmare. He sighed. "What did you dream about?"

"M-My Grace… Metatron…" Castiel said in a low voice.

He was being too difficult for himself, Dean realised. If Castiel was dwelling on this hard enough to give himself nightmares, this was going to roll downhill quicker than any of them could say 'Metatron'. And he didn't need Castiel to slip away. Not now, not ever.

"Cas…" he said, "you have to catch a break. I know it's hard, I know it must hurt … hell, I can't probably even imagine half of it, but you've gotta forgive yourself. And whatever it is… you can tell me, man. I can help you. Hell, if Sam weren't sick…" His own breath hitched at the thought of the chemotherapy schedule stuck to his wall.

He had never seen Castiel react to anything in this fashion, though, and he wasn't sure if it was just the humanness overwhelming his friend, but he didn't like seeing him this way. But then again, Castiel had never had to sleep as an angel, so maybe the nightmares were freaking him out more than normal.

"Hey," he said, "tell you what? Stop thinking about everything for a while, okay? Just try and relax. Try to get to sleep without thinking about everything that's happened."

"I – I can't, Dean."

"Yes, you can," said Dean. "You have to try."

"I don't want to go back to sleep."

He was terrified, Dean realised, and Castiel reached to take his book. Dean gave it back to him this time. They would take this slow. He'd help Castiel go back to his dick self in no time, and everything would be okay. Or so he hoped. He seemed to be hoping a lot of things lately. But then again, when had so many things gone wrong all at once? This had to be a first, in that respect.

He read for a another half-an-hour, occasionally glancing at Castiel, who, after a while, got tired again, and rested his head on his book. In due time, soft snores emanated from the former angel, and Dean almost breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn't disturb Castiel after that, but then in an hour or so, his own eyes began to burn with sleep, and he decided it was time for him to hit the sack as well. He put his book on the shelf and came back to Castiel, before patting his shoulder lightly.

"Cas."

The former angel woke up with a start, and Dean took the book from under him to return it to the shelf. "Go to your room and get some shuteye," he said. "Come on, I'm heading the same way. I'm sleepy too." Castiel nodded and they started heading to the bedrooms.

Dean's room was adjacent to Sam's, and both were at the far end of the hallway, more for privacy during this time. Castiel's room, however, came first on their way back.

The latter gave Dean a glance as he opened the door to his room. "Goodnight," said Dean, starting to make his way to his own room, when he felt a hand clutch his wrist. He turned around.

"I feel fear, Dean," said Castiel, genuine dread reflecting off the blue of his eyes.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Dean assured him, feeling as though he were talking to a child. "We're all just a few rooms away. Kev's here, Sam's here… you don't even need to walk that much to my room."

Castiel's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "I can't sleep."

Dean sighed. Honestly, it was like handling a scared kid. But Castiel wasn't a kid. He was distressed, and that was what this was. "Go in and lie down," Dean said finally. "I'll sit with you on that chair till you sleep." He chuckled. "I still owe you for all the times you've gone Edward Cullen on me."

Despite the joke, the other man looked comforted as he went into the room, followed by Dean, who took the chair and sat down beside the bed. He watched Castiel drift off as he leaned back, sleep taking over his own senses, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep right there on the chair.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm thinking I'll update this story every Tuesday. Starting this week, I have a few other commitments — over at MNFF mostly. I have to finish a one-shot Potter fic for a final exam in one of the writing classes I'm taking on the MNFF forums. Plus there are two banner requests that I have to fulfil and also two Potter WIPs I really need to work on.

So I think, I'll keep this to once a week, keep it consistent so you know when to expect it. What say? Anyway, do review! Silence is poison to a writer.


	5. The Start: Part 1

**A/N:** Hello, all! Here's the update, as promised.

I don't like this chapter very much. This and next one are mainly about Sam's chemotherapy experience and it wasn't a lot of fun to write that. Poor chap! Here's where his hell ride begins (if it hadn't already). Also, this is the chapter where I tone up the Destiel.

Anyway, you'll see some of my exam angst in Sam's mind this chapter. Lot of naughty language there lol (but I'd be that way if I were Sam too). Also, I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but the last part of this fic is based on a dream. I combined Sam's DDx with said dream, and that's what this is. The dream wasn't very nice, jsyk. It got me shaking with feels and I was nervous for the whole day after that (who knew that something about fictitious characters would make me so anxious? Here I am, anyway).

And thank you, once again, for all your support with the faves, follows and reviews! Keep them coming, lovelies, I'll love you guys forever. :)

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**4. The Start: Part 1**

Dean jerked awake the next morning with an ache in his neck from the awkward position that he had slept in. Castiel was still curled up under a pile of blankets and was mercifully asleep, and the fact that he hadn't woken up again signified the absence of any more nightmares.

Dean shuddered as the events from last night replayed in his head. He didn't know how many such episodes he would witness, and he didn't want to think about it.

He looked at Castiel for a long moment, feeling lonelier than he ever had. Up until now, whatever it was with Sam or the world, or anything, there had always been Bobby or even Castiel sometimes, but right now Dean was in a situation with a very sick brother and a possibly disturbed friend, and there was no one to help — no one he could look up to for any kind of support. He was supposed to handle this alone.

He left Castiel's room and headed straight to Sam's, where his little brother was still in a peaceful slumber. After reluctantly waking him up, he headed to the bathroom to shower and dress himself. When he came out, Sam was waiting outside for his turn, with his towel and clothes, and Dean tried to give him an encouraging smile before heading to the kitchen.

Castiel woke up for breakfast, which was a quiet affair. Kevin was still asleep, and the adults decided not to wake the kid up. He deserved all that rest. Sam played with his food and Dean told him off for it. The doctor had said that a good meal was recommended before chemotherapy, and Dean reminded Sam of that. Castiel was quiet all through, but just as Dean finished his breakfast, he spoke up.

"I'll come with you and Sam."

Dean, who had been on the way to put his plate in the sink, stopped. "Uh, it's okay, Cas, there's no need for that. You should get some rest anyway."

"No, I think I should come," said Castiel. "Perhaps you and Sam will be better comforted with a friend around."

Dean turned to Sam, who shrugged. They both knew that Castiel needed to get out of the bunker for a while, that he'd feel better if he did that, but going along to the hospital wasn't the best way to get fresh air. Sam didn't know about last night's episode, though, which was probably why he was agreeing upon letting Castiel uproot himself from the bunker. But despite what Dean said, the former angel seemed stubborn about his intentions, and the Winchesters gave up and decided to let him join them.

Before long, Dean and Castiel were sitting on stools next to Sam's bed in the oncology ward, and Dr Greene paid a visit to reassure Sam that his kidney function test and blood test from Saturday were just fine, and offered to clear any questions that he would have about the treatment. When he had none, she beckoned to the nurse to begin the session.

Sam didn't flinch when the IV catheter was inserted into his vein. The nurse, Cecelia, explained that the IV line would stay even after Sam left the hospital, so they wouldn't have to prick him for three continuous days. And since Sam's chemo was just three days per three weeks, he didn't have to get one of those central lines inserted, and regular, peripheral IV was good enough.

After instructing Sam on care for the line at home, Cecelia injected a cocktail of anti-emetics and placed a bag of saline to hydrate Sam before the actual treatment began. For several moments, Sam, Dean and Castiel were staring at the colourless fluid dripping from the bag into the cannula.

"Perhaps we should start entertaining Sam," said Castiel, interrupting the silence. Dean tore his eyes away from the saline bag and gave Sam a weak grin.

"Want a bedtime story, Sammy?"

"Shut up," said Sam, chuckling at him. "Jerk."

**~o~**

"Dean."

Sam knew his voice was faint — almost a whisper. He could hear Dean's breath hitch a little, and he also knew that Dean's mind was filling up with possibilities as to why Sam was calling his name, and was settling on the most obvious one. The younger Winchester had been tired, queasy and dizzy after all those hours of chemotherapy, and Dean had let him drift off in the backseat while Castiel rode shotgun.

"Do you want me to pull over?" Dean asked Sam, sounding like he dreaded the answer.

Sam was angry with himself, and with everything. Why the fuck was it that he was receiving one of the few drugs that the anti-emetics couldn't completely work on? If he had to have cancer, couldn't it be one of those with a less emetogenic chemotherapy or whatever? But _no_. Here was his Winchester luck. He _had_ to get the medicines that made you sick the most — which made puking about five times a day look normal.

"Mmm," Sam replied anyway, getting rid of the thoughts. It was no use cursing everything now. He had, however, confirmed Dean's suspicion. His stomach was churning terribly and he couldn't bear to open his eyes.

"Okay, hang on." Dean stopped the car.

"What's wrong?" Sam could hear Castiel asking him, and Dean didn't reply to him. In a jiffy, Sam felt his elder brother's arms helping him sit up.

"Come on, buddy."

Oh God, this was embarrassing. He was about to barf on the side of the road, and Dean was actually supporting him so he wouldn't face-plant onto the asphalt. He hated this. He _so_ hated this. But he let Dean steer him about anyway, knowing that if he resisted, he was bound to fall on his ass. Or his mug.

He was led to a patch of trees on the side of the road. Oh good; trees. He clutched on to one of them, his arm winding around the trunk as he doubled over, his other hand on his knee. His stomach roiled and he spat out a vat of saliva.

"Sam…" Dean sounded concerned, but Sam was grateful that he wasn't rubbing his back or something, because this was awkward enough. Dean was acknowledging Sam's own strength to handle this, and was trying to reduce Sam's mortification, and Sam was appreciative of that. Because, oh God, he really just wanted to run away.

He swayed dangerously. "Easy, man," said Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him standing. "Do you want to kneel down?"

Sam shook his head as he spat out saliva again. Kneeling would mean admitting he was weak. He wasn't weak — just dizzy. And nauseous as hell. Lord, he was going to puke. He gripped the tree tighter and coughed, his stomach heaving as he did so.

It was horrible. Every retch, every cough was strained. His stomach hurt, his head hurt, his throat hurt, his eyes hurt, and every fucking part of his body _fucking_ _hurt_. Cold sweat was forming on his forehead and back, dampening his hair and his shirt. He could still feel Dean's steadying grip as he threw up again and again, hardly able to hold himself up from the pain, but then, after what seemed like hours, thankfully, _mercifully_, it was over, and he wasn't sure what was happening, but he thought Castiel was there with a bottle of water… and, oh, this was so fucking embarrassing. He wasn't letting Castiel come for any more of his chemo sessions.

"Sam, drink this," said Dean, cracking open the bottle and holding it out to the younger Winchester.

"No…" he wasn't sure if he had really spoken.

"You have to, Sam. The doctor has said so, remember?"

Whatever. Sam didn't have the strength to argue. He took the bottle from Dean, rinsed and spat out the first few sips, and then forced down a few more. His stomach roiled, and he knew it was happening again. He wanted his dignity this time, though, so he managed to open his mouth and speak.

"Dean… go…"

_"What?"_

"Be fine… go… car…"

Dean didn't argue with him, and the hand slid off Sam's shoulder, patted his back twice, and Sam shivered a little when the touch was gone. But he appreciated this because Dean understood what Sam was going through. He really was a very good brother, and Sam would thank him for it when opening his mouth didn't mean puking again. And then, in five minutes, the horrible pain and nausea were back. He was doubled over, trying not to faint as he retched and threw up and spat, his eyes stinging, and tears blurring his vision. It was worse this time, for he was just dry-heaving through most of it, and when he knew he was done, and that he couldn't take it anymore, he slid down against the tree in a crouch and shut his eyes as he rested his head sideways on the bark.

Oh God, why him?

**~o~**

"Is he all right?"

Dean looked incredulously at Castiel, and then at his brother, who was in a crouch on the grass. "Yeah, Cas," he said sarcastically. "He looks peachy, doesn't he?"

"Not really."

Dean sighed. "Stay put. I'll check on him, okay?"

"Okay."

Sam seemed to be muttering to himself when Dean reached him and squatted beside him. "You done there?" he asked, a hand going to Sam's back. He could tell that Sam was really embarrassed of being sick this way, which was why he had not objected to Sam requesting to be left alone.

"Hmm," Sam murmured, side of his face still rested against the tree.

"Here," Dean said, handing him the bottle of water.

Sam accepted it from him with shaky hands and rinsed and spat out the vileness in his mouth. They waited some more, Dean still crouched beside his brother, and Sam finally handed him the bottle. "'M okay."

"Yeah, you are, Sammy," said Dean encouragingly, helping him up, and leading him back to the Impala. He took out Sam's anti-emetic prescription from the glove compartment and gave him a pill. "Take that."

"Like that'll help," Sam muttered crossly, but he accepted the pill anyway, and then took a swig of the water to wash it down. He swallowed while Dean ran wads of tissue paper on his mouth, chin, and then his cheeks where the tears had fallen, and when he was comfortable again, he nodded his okay to be driven back to the bunker.

Sam wasn't very nauseous anymore, thanks to the medicine, and Dean managed to coax him to eat a sandwich and some crackers, and wash them down with Gatorade. Sam lingered on the brink of throwing them back up again, but then his stomach seemed to settle, and soon, he was sure that he would be able to keep down his lunch. Dean heaved a sigh of relief at that.

In the next hour, Sam was in bed and Dean left the room, with a last glance at his brother's face, which had grown even paler after the episode on the side of the road. A long arm shot out from under the blanket, and he saw the IV cannula, secured to the back of Sam's palm with transparent taping. Gosh, how comfortable could that be? And looking at Sam that way, he was determined to go back and continue with the research from last night. He left the room without another word, swallowing down his own nausea from watching his brother this way. Sam so didn't deserve this.

He was making his way down the corridor to the war room, when the door to Castiel's room opened. The former angel stepped out, sympathy in his blue eyes. "Is he asleep?"

"Yeah," said Dean, pressing a palm to his forehead and rubbing it. His hand fell to his side and he looked into Castiel's eyes. "How're you doing?"

"I'm fine," said Castiel. "I slept well last night." He paused. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Dean replied to him. He hesitated. "Look, man, if there's anything…"

"I assure you," said Castiel, "That I'm doing better. Are you going to continue with your research?"

"Yes."

"Then I will assist you."

"If you want to," shrugged Dean, but he was secretly thankful to all the support that Castiel was showing, despite having his own world of problems. Kevin joined them in the library and the three men embarked on their latest mission — to find a cure for Sam. It wouldn't be easy, Dean knew, but he also knew that nothing would take Sam away from him. He would most definitely find a cure for this fucker of a cancer.

**~o~**

Sam was in a world of nausea and distorted thoughts when Dean shook him awake. Moaning disapprovingly at the disturbance, he turned to his side and tried to sleep again, but Dean was persistent. "Come on, Sam, you've slept an hour already."

"'M tired," Sam complained, his stomach making him too uneasy to face the world. He instantly regretted his lunch. Dammit, he was going to throw up again. He grumbled. "Go away, Dean."

"I'm not going anywhere. Now wake up."

"It's only been an hour."

"And the doctor said that your naps weren't supposed to exceed an hour. Come on… get up and eat something."

"Don' wanna eat." Ugh. Who would want to eat with all this nausea?

"That's not an option."

Sam moaned again, reaching for the hand that was patting his shoulder (trying to get him to wake up), and swatted it away. "Go, Dean," he said, realising that he sounded about five at that moment.

"No."

Sam sighed and dragged the blanket over his head, but Dean pulled it away. Sam shivered. "Stop treating me like I'm a kid. I'll wake up when I wanna."

"Doesn't work that way," Dean insisted. "Look, I'm gonna keep trying until you listen to me. Dr Greene was very clear about this — the more you sleep, the more tired you get."

"Can't get more tired." _Can't get more nauseous either._

"I know," Dean sounded sad. "But remember what you've told me and the doctor? About being ready to fight all these things?"

Sam opened his eyes ever so slightly and turned around to look at Dean, who seemed desperate. "Yeah," he said, trying to sit up. His head spun for a good minute and he had to clutch on to his sheets, but it passed, and he was sitting up against his headrest.

Dean smiled at him. "What do you want to eat?"

"Nothing." His stomach was churning now. Terribly.

"That's not on the menu. Small, frequent meals, remember? There's toast, soup—"

Sam swallowed down nausea. "Can't eat, Dean," he said earnestly, hoping his brother would let this go. "Gonna be si—" he clamped a hand over his mouth just at the thought, as bile came rising up his throat.

Dean's eyes widened. "Hey, hey, whoa! Hang on…" He rummaged for a garbage can, but there didn't seem to be one. "Shit, Sam, how don't you have a fucking trashcan in your room?" he asked, coming over to Sam and helping him up. "Come on."

They barely made it to the bathroom before Sam dropped to his knees and started to heave into the toilet. The pain was so much worse this time, that he half-choked and half-sobbed as he retched again and again.

"Dean…" he managed to gasp out between spasms, the agony too much to bear. He hated himself at once for saying it, because what was he, a child? He couldn't help it, though, for so many years of always having Dean around to solve all his problems had had an effect on his expectations from his brother even as an adult. He never really did this anymore, not after Stanford, but the reaction had been involuntary today.

Dean knew this too, for Sam felt his brother move behind him at the call of his name. "Hey, hey, it's okay, buddy, I'm right here." Dean hand was on his back in a jiffy, rubbing swiftly, and he was saying something else too, but Sam's ears were ringing from the effort of being sick. Another spasm attacked his muscles and he reached out a hand blindly, finding the edge of his brother's shirt and fisting it. Dean didn't flinch at that, though. He just concentrated on trying to make Sam feel better.

He heard hurried footsteps. "Is he okay?" Kevin's voice asked.

"He will be," Dean said.

"Is – is there anything I could do to help?" Kevin asked, sounding startled as Sam let out a particularly violent retch. His muscles cramped, and he fisted Dean's shirt tighter.

"G-Get me some of ginger ale from the kitchen, would you?" Dean instructed Kevin, sounding equally startled. "Keep it with you in your room. I'll come and collect it." Sam heard Kevin walk away, and Dean began to speak to him. "It's okay, Sam, it's okay, just breathe…"

After a few long moments, Sam raised his head, his eyes blurry with tears of pain and exertion. He gasped once and coughed, releasing his grip on Dean's shirt and Dean, who was still trying to comfort him, turned so he was at Sam's side. "You done?"

"Think so."

The elder Winchester straightened up to flush the toilet and went over to fill a glass with water. "Don't get your cannula wet," he said, pulling Sam's arm away from the bowl, and giving him the water in his other hand. His voice softened as Sam grimaced at another cramp. "I know it hurts, Sam, but just breathe, okay? You're going to be all right."

Sam nodded meekly and proceeded to rinse, taking deep breaths to settle his knotted muscles. The nausea, however, sprang back up and he groaned, setting the glass down. He rested his elbow on the bowl and his forehead on his palm, facing the toilet once again. Dean seemed surprised. "Again?!"

He nodded — for a second time — and Dean swore — something about 'fucking chemo', but Sam wasn't listening. Dean spoke another time. "Want me to come back after a while?"

"Stay." Sam wouldn't normally ask him of that, but he had embarrassed himself too darn many times that day and what the hell, Dean was his _brother_. Plus, at this moment, Sam's mind was only full of pain, hopelessness and fear — and he'd be lying if he didn't think that Dean's presence seemed to alleviate some of that. Because, right now, Dean wasn't sympathising or freaking out like regular people would. He was joining in and trying to share the pain.

Dean, unsurprised from Sam's request, crouched back down, as they waited for the next episode of disaster to occur. Sam was wondering whether this would be considered his fourth episode, or if it was still just the second one. Would he have to be rushed to the hospital if he puked again?

Another cough escaped him and he felt Dean stiffen behind him, hand going up and down Sam's back, and then proceeding to rub swiftly between Sam's scapular spines when he coughed again and spat. "Take it easy," Dean said quietly, patting some, then rubbing again, trying to figure out what helped Sam the most. Sam, on the other hand, didn't care as long as his brother was there at that very moment.

Dean hadn't done this on the roadside earlier that day — because at that point, Sam had wanted to handle it himself — he was embarrassed of the world watching him, weak and sick on a patch of grass. Right now, however, Sam knew that this was a sign of Dean letting him seek comfort if he wanted to — telling him that there was absolutely nothing to be mortified about, that they were alone, just brothers, who had grown up together and had seen each other's moments of weakness — physical or otherwise — more than anyone else. _It's okay, Sammy. It's just me._

"Dean."

Dean's hand continued its motions on his back. "Yeah, Sam?"

"Dn't … feel g'd."

"I know. I'm sorry, Sammy."

_Not your fault_, he thought, coughing again and beginning to throw up another time. His abdominal muscles were on fire, sore with each spasm, and his throat was burning by the time he was done, but Dean being there to help him made it seem less painful. He gulped down some water at the end of it and managed to keep it down, but Dean didn't let Sam go back to sleep once he had washed his face and changed into some non-sweaty clothes. He led Sam out of the bunker instead and they took a short walk in silence, which, Sam wouldn't deny, was actually refreshing, and did a good deal to reduce the fatigue.

That evening, Sam was feeling much better, the nausea having been at bay. He had soup and toast for dinner, and actually kept it all down. He had taken another dose of the anti-emetics to achieve this, of course, but it kept his food in his stomach, and he was thankful for that. All-in-all, when he went back to sleep for the night (Dean telling him in advance that he wouldn't be allowed to sleep beyond eight hours), Sam felt hope rise in him. Ninety-nine per cent chances were that he was dying, but maybe… just maybe, he could fight this if he tried hard enough. It was hard, it was uncomfortable, but it was better than his expectations. If he followed Dean's lead, he could probably be the one per cent that survived.

**~o~**

"Sam is better."

Dean raised his eyes at Castiel as the former angel took his place for the continuing research. He shut his book, placing a bookmark in the page he had reached, and looked at Castiel. "You don't know how grateful I am for that, Cas."

"Very much, it seems."

Dean washed a hand over his face. "The kid really just needs something to hold on to, you know. I keep telling him that he's not alone, and I mean it, I am ready to take every shred of pain that I can take in his stead. Hell, if there were a way I could take up all that cancer and chemo instead of him…" He sighed. "If the chemotherapy doesn't make him feel all that sick and weak, maybe he will fight more willingly."

Castiel opened his mouth to say something, and shut it. Instead, unexpectedly, he reached for Dean's hand and took it in his, warm, firm fingers intertwining with Dean's and squeezing his hand comfortingly. Dean was taken aback, but he pulled his own hand away as though an electric current had passed through it. And he proceeded to get even more startled as unbidden warmth rushed up his cheeks.

"What are you doing?" he asked the other man hoarsely.

Castiel seemed a little hurt and a little confused at Dean's reaction. "I was of the idea that holding someone's hand was a comforting gesture," he said genuinely.

Dean chuckled nervously. "Cas… you know, y-you don't…" he licked his lower lip, the feel of Castiel's hand still not leaving his mind. "You don't do the – the finger thing, okay?" He said. "You just…" He swallowed. "Oh God, why are we even talking about this?" he asked no one in particular as he stood up. "I – I'm tired."

Castiel was still confused as he looked at Dean fumble around with the book, his hands shaking while he put it away in the shelf. He started to leave, but Castiel's voice stopped him again. "I'm not sure whether you're angry or embarrassed."

"No… it's just hot in here," Dean huffed too soon, assuming that Castiel was referring to the fact that he had coloured. "Darn summer. I'll see you in the morning." But even as he walked away, Castiel's observation kept plaguing him. Why the hell had he reacted like that?

_Weird,_ his mind said to him. _But it isn't like you haven't thought about…_

_Shut up!_

It was like a conflict in his head, and by the time he had changed into his nightclothes, he had his hands on his ears, futilely trying to block out all the thoughts. But they kept flowing in and out of his head. What was Castiel to him? Family? Yes. But what kind of family? Sure, he had called Castiel a brother a few years ago, but Castiel had ceased to be like a brother long back. Brother meant Sam, not Cas. Cas was something else — someone else. He occupied a position in Dean's life that the latter couldn't quite place.

_What does Cas mean to me? Is he just a friend?_

_Don't go there, _another part of his mind argued.

_Why did I react that way, then?_

_Isn't it obvious? This is a reaction to your dry spell. _

It was true, he thought. He hadn't had sex in ages. If an unsuspecting incident of hand-holding by a _friend_ (who was male) had caused this reaction, then he, Dean, seriously needed some action. And God, after Sam's first chemo cycle, Dean was going straight to a nice bar and addressing this issue. What had happened just now was fucking embarrassing and it couldn't (and wouldn't) happen again.

* * *

**A/N:** So... part two will come next Tuesday. :D Hope I'm not doing too badly here. I am so unsure about the characterisation on this chapter. Ugh. Is the h/c too much? I thought it was in this chapter, which was why I kinda hated it.

Anyway, jsyk, guys, the nausea and vomiting from chemo has really reduced among patients these days. I looked up the drug success stats for everything, and even patient reports, and that is where I'm writing Sam's reaction to the chemo from. One site said that despite anti-emetic treatment, there can be grade 3-4 n/v in most patients receiving Cisplatin, and grade three is about 5 episodes a day, if I'm not wrong. Grade four is more serious, but I reckoned the anti-emetic treatment would at least work that much for Sam, so as to not put him back in the hospital (poor guy, I tortured him enough in this chapter). However, if anyone knows that there's something wrong here, please don't hesitate to correct me. I'm always willing to learn. :)

Also, like I said, suggestions are always welcome. Sam isn't done yet, though.


	6. The Start: Part 2

**A/N:** Okay, yes, I know this is late, and I'm sorry! There were two exams this week, both announced at short notice. I had barely two days to prepare for both those, and I'm way past the stage of education where a test being announced a day prior isn't a big deal. Plus, I suddenly got allotted a case in orthopaedics and I was busy with that.

Anyway I'm here now, with an update, and perhaps, I should shift the date to Wednesdays, because Monday and Tuesday, every week, I'm going to have exams. If not Wednesday, I will update once a week. Let's see how this goes. New semester at college, and this is my final semester, so it's really gruelling :/.

Anyway, here's part two! It's the boys dealing with some other side-effects. And I'm really, really sorry, Sam fans! I love Sam too, and I felt awful writing this chapter. Let's give him some virtual hugs, everyone.

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**5. The Start: Part 2**

Sam's eyes flew open in the middle of the night, his sleep breaking away and drawing his attention to a cramping sensation in his abdomen. He changed his position and drew his knees closer to his stomach with his hands feebly massaging the aching area. It didn't help, though, and the movement was just aggravating the cramping. It also didn't help when he tried not to think of the pain and just go back to sleep, because it just seemed to be to increasing in intensity with each passing minute.

Wishing he could have stayed asleep, he sat up. The cramping was getting worse each second, and he wrapped his arms around his stomach, taking deep breaths. Sam already hated the chemotherapy drugs at this moment. The side effects were worse than anything he had experienced even from the trial and he was glad that the drugs were only going to be administered to him three days every three weeks and not more than that. That, in itself, was a pain.

He had ticked out the side effects one-by-one that day. The nausea and vomiting were there, all right, and then he had been dizzy. And now the abdominal cramps were getting worse. Great. Was there anything else that was about to happen? Any other side effects that wanted to make themselves apparent, so he could be tortured some more?

It wasn't as though all the symptoms from the disease itself had vanished anyway. The blood in his cough had gone — they had controlled it in a procedure at the hospital itself — an embolisation or something, and that point, Sam had been so fed up of pricked and prodded, that he hadn't cared to pay attention to what they were doing. He just knew that they had done it through his leg. The coughing in itself was still there, though, sometimes accompanied by chest pain too.

Also, the most annoying symptom of all hadn't gone yet — Sam's jelly legs. The doctor had attributed this to the prolonged fatigue caused by the cancer and Sam hated this more than anything else, because it made him keep stumbling about, and it still earned concerned glances from his brother. Dean had offered him help a few times too, but he had refused, for as far as possible, he wanted to be able to walk about without support. Yes, he knew Dean would always be there to help him, but he hated needing help with anything. Either ways, after the chemo session, he had been out of it enough to require Dean's help, but he wanted to be independent while he could. He was over thirty and he definitely didn't want to be reliant on anyone at this point.

He let out a breath. His stomach was starting to cramp pretty badly. Reclining against his bed, he tried to think of something pleasant, but he couldn't. The cramps were too distracting. He licked his lips, thirst making itself evident, and he eyed the bottle of water on his nightstand wearily.

The doctor had recommended about four quarts of water a day and Sam hadn't kept up with that either. He blamed it all on the nausea because it was annoying how it was so persistent, the only change in it being the increase and decrease in its intensity. And he never knew at what point he'd blow it. Last night, the nausea hadn't been bad, and he had been able to eat, but he had struggled with it enough for the day, and thing was capable of escalating within seconds, irrespective of whether it was followed by vomiting.

The thirst won over everything else and Sam reached for the bottle of water at his nightstand and cracked it open. He was cautious with the first two sips of water. They settled a little heavily, and he knew that it was a mistake the moment he had taken them. He sighed, emptying the bottle anyway, sip-by-sip, because he was really thirsty, and maybe, just _maybe_, it wouldn't come back up again. _Fucking chemo_, he thought, remembering Dean's words from the previous day. He was going to hate this, he knew; he was going to hate all four or six months of the chemotherapy. However, he had to fight. He had to be the one per cent that got into remission. He had to survive.

He felt the nausea attack just on time, just the way he had expected it to, and he stood up from the bed, before making his way to the bathroom, stumbling all along. He hated his life right now, but if he just fought, he could make it better. He knew that.

**~o~**

Dean had an odd dream that night. It included a lot of awkward hand-holding with Castiel and when he woke up; he was still considerably embarrassed at what had happened. He wondered what he'd tell the former angel when he saw him at breakfast, but then he remembered his hurried explanation from the previous night, and thanked whatever god was out there, that Castiel rarely understood human things. He would buy Dean's reasoning for all the fumbling.

He was awake pretty early, though, having gone to bed a little earlier than he usually did. He glanced at the huge, glowing numbers on the digital clock on his nightstand. It was just a little after four in the morning. He yawned and stretched, deciding it was time to continue with his research. He was three-quarters done with his book, and it had nothing yet. Kevin and Castiel hadn't found anything either, but there were plenty of books in the library, and Dean was somehow confident that he'd find a way to fix his brother.

There was a knock at his door. _God, don't let it be Cas_, he thought, as he picked up the book he was reading from the floor beside his bed and called out, "Come in."

It was Sam. Dean raised an eyebrow. "You up so soon?"

"Yeah," said Sam, coming in and sitting on Dean's bed. "Couldn't sleep anymore."

"Well," said Dean, glancing at the clock again, "You still have three hours to go before you have to be up anyway, so think about it."

"No, I'm good," said Sam. There was something odd about his voice. Also, there was something wrong with the way he had walked when he had covered the distance between the door and Dean's bed.

"You okay?" Dean asked Sam.

"Besides the fact that I have cancer? Yeah," Sam replied wearily.

"Not that, smartass," Dean said seriously. "How are you feeling?"

"Been better," said Sam truthfully, putting his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his palms.

"What is it?"

"Stomach," Sam sighed. "Cramps."

Dean washed a hand over his face. The cramps were back. Great. Exactly what Sam needed when he was trying to sleep after a long day. He reached for the water bottle on his bedside table and handed it to Sam. "Small sips, deep breaths."

"Did that," Sam replied. "Threw the water back up too."

Dean swore. Sam looked at him and smiled wanly. "It's okay, Dean, I'm fine."

"The cramps are why you can't sleep, isn't it?" Dean questioned him.

Sam nodded and yawned, as though to prove just how tired he was, and how much he would like to sleep. Dean sighed. "We'll get the proper meds for it from the doctor today, then," he said. He paused. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so," said Sam, "but thanks." He yawned again. "Your bed is really comfortable," he said, bouncing on it and smiling up at Dean.

His brother grinned at him. "What did I tell you about choosing your mattress carefully?"

"Nothing."

Dean made a face. "You're an ass."

"You have a really bad habit of projecting, you know."

"Very funny," Dean replied.

Sam chuckled. "See? I'm funnier than you are."

"Sure," Dean replied, sitting on the chair beside his bed and opening the book as he put it on his lap. He looked up at Sam. "I'm going to read now. Wanna lay down here for a bit?"

"I could read too," Sam offered. "I'm bored, Dean."

"You get your rest," Dean insisted. "I'll handle this." He smiled. "You think the mattress is comfortable to sit on? Try lying down on it."

Sam yawned a third time and considered Dean's offer. "Okay," he said quietly, and slowly but reluctantly, he lay down on Dean's bed. The elder Winchester got up from his chair and picked up one of the spare pillows, putting it over Sam's abdomen.

"Here, hold that close," he said. Then he sat back down on his chair, pushed it back, and propped his legs up on the bed, beside Sam, as he turned to the page he had been reading.

"Hey, Dean," said Sam, turning to his side, "this really is very comfortable."

Dean chuckled at his younger brother. "See how I'm always right?"

"Sure," Sam yawned. Yet again. The kid was really very tired.

"Okay," said Dean, putting the book down for a minute. "I'll finish this page, and then we'll talk away your boredom. Deal?"

"Deal," said Sam, rubbing at his eyes and sighing comfortably. He then shut his eyes and smiled, taking a deep whiff of the bedding. "Smells like the 'Mpala…" he slurred, already sleepy.

Dean grinned and started to read again but by the time he had got to the end of the page, Sam's breaths had evened out and when he looked up, Sam was sleeping on his stomach, body curving awkwardly at the pillow below his abdomen. His hands were gripping the pillow at his head. Sam's face was turned to Dean, and though small pain lines were visible on the younger man's forehead, he was asleep.

Dean licked his lips before moving to the bed and throwing a blanket over his brother. Then he wet a washcloth at the bathroom and placed it on Sam's forehead. Sam sighed again and murmured something, pulling up his legs, so that he was almost in a foetal position. At that moment, he looked like an overgrown five-year-old.

"Aw, Sammy." Smiling fondly at his brother, Dean put on a robe and made his way to the kitchen to obtain a cup of coffee for himself. It was going to be a long, hard day, and he needed to prepare for it.

**~o~**

Castiel was sipping on a cup of coffee in the kitchen when he heard footsteps approach in his direction. Putting the mug down, he wondered who it was, but at the back of his mind, he already knew — Sam was too ill to be awake at this hour, and Kevin never woke up this early; which left only one person.

Dean came into the kitchen with a hot water bottle in his hand and stopped short when he saw Castiel. "Hey, Cas," he said, not quite meeting eyes with the former angel. "'Morning."

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel replied, taking another sip of his coffee. He gestured to the coffeemaker. "I didn't consume all of it, so if you want some, you don't have to prepare any."

"Thanks," Dean said, pouring some water into the kettle and putting it to boil. Castiel presumed he was going to fill the hot water bottle with the water. The elder Winchester then picked up a mug and came over to take coffee while the water boiled.

As he watched Dean move about, Castiel realised that the other man was being guarded around him — cautious. He remembered the previous night, and wondered what was so wrong with what he had done. He knew he had made Dean uncomfortable several times before by unknowingly invading his personal space, but as far as he was aware, holding someone's hand wasn't invading personal space. Plus, in the previous times he'd done this, Dean had been quick to forgive Castiel. The discomfort never lasted so long.

Unless it wasn't discomfort. Was Dean angry?

There was silence as Dean and Castiel leant against the counter and sipped on their coffees. Castiel finished his mug and looked at Dean for a full moment, until he started to see Dean's ears grow red. Dean brought down the mug and looked directly at the other man. "Uh… something you wanna say, Cas?"

"Not particularly."

"Then would you please stop staring?"

Castiel looked away and licked his lip. Dean was definitely angry. "How is Sam doing?" he asked Dean.

"He's been better," Dean responded to him.

"Is the chemotherapy session at the same time today as well?"

"Yeah," said Dean.

"I'll come along."

Dean put down his empty cup. "About that, Cas…" he hesitated. "I think it would be better if Sam and I go for the session alone."

"I could help — Sam may not keep too well after the session and you might need help."

"I know you could help," said Dean. "Believe me, I do. And I appreciate your offer. But I think Sam would prefer it if it's just me."

"Why?"

"Try to understand, Cas," Dean reasoned.

"But I thought we're family," Castiel replied. "Aren't we?" His heart fluttered.

"Yes, yes, we are," Dean replied, washing his mug. "Sam thinks so too. But…" he licked his lips. "How many times has he been sick, Cas? You've known him a few years now — how many times have you seen his health take a dip like this?"

Castiel thought about it, and the answer came up at once. Apart from the occasional cold or the flu? Never. The Winchesters were pretty good health-wise. They almost never got sick. But he didn't understand what how that was related to this. "I don't get what you're saying," Castiel said to Dean.

Dean sighed. "Cas, no illness he's had has ever been something he wasn't able to handle by himself. He's always been independent, you know. He's never liked being coddled or being paid too much attention to. But at this moment, he's not good and he needs help, and he's having a hard time asking for it because that's not him. This sudden dependence is killing him — and he really doesn't need other people looking at him this way — as though he's weak."

"I don't think he's weak," replied Castiel.

"He isn't," Dean said, "And I'm glad you think so, but with more people around him, treating him like he's sick — it's only going to upset him further. I think he should get some space."

"But you're taking care of him," said Castiel. "You're always there."

Dean chuckled. "Believe me, Cas, if the kid weren't feeling so crappy, he'd have gladly flipped me off and taken care of himself."

Castiel knew, however, that Dean was lying. This had nothing to do with how bad Sam's health was. He knew that the pre-trial Sam would have declined Dean's help; no matter how ill he was, even if it came to his current condition because Dean was right, the younger Winchester liked his independence. But after the trial, something had changed between the brothers. Sam seemed to be _letting_ Dean take care of him. Why so? What was it between them that had been altered?

Dean interrupted Castiel's thoughts. "What are you doing up so early anyway?"

Castiel looked at his hands. "I think it's high time I go looking for my brothers and sisters."

"And—?"

"We need to find a way to get back Heaven from Metatron. I might not be able to go back—" An intense remorse took over his senses as he thought of it, but he swallowed the lump in his throat. "I should still help, though."

"So what has that got to do with being up early?"

"I need a plan, so I can track them…" Castiel licked his lips, thinking about the other motif in his mind — the reason he had woken up early. He wanted to conduct a discrete research on his hunch, and he didn't want to tell Dean about it because it would raise a flicker of hope in the other man, and Castiel didn't want to disappoint him, in case his assumption turned out to be wrong.

Dean's eyebrow was raised. "What aren't you telling me, Cas?"

"N – Nothing," Castiel lied, but he knew his stuttering had increased Dean's suspicions.

"Dude, you were always a crappy liar. Out with it," Dean demanded, drying his mug and placing it in the shelf. He took Castiel's empty mug too. "You done, or are you having more?"

"No, I will not have more," said Castiel, and took his mug back from Dean, intending to wash it himself. Their fingers, brushed, and Dean pulled his hand away as though the mug were hot, causing it to almost tumble out of Castiel's loose grip. The former angel, however, managed to catch it.

"Dammit," said Dean, and Castiel could swear the other man's ears were red again. "Sorry, Cas. I didn't—"

"It's okay," said Castiel, turning to the sink and starting to wash the cup. Without a doubt he knew now, that Dean was angry with him. There was no other explanation for this. Anyway, he, Castiel, would be out of the Winchesters' hair soon. They needed their privacy, and Dean needed time to forgive Castiel for whatever he was upset about.

"So, what is it?" Dean asked, breaking the silence and absently rubbing at the parts of his hand that had touched Castiel's.

The latter pressed his lips together and turned his eyes to look into Dean's long-lashed ones. Blue bled into green for a whole minute, and Castiel tried to convey his sentiments on how much he didn't want to let Dean down. Dean blinked and looked away, and Castiel sighed. "There might be a way to cure your brother."

The green eyes were looking into the blue again, widening, as Dean's lips parted. "Say what?"

"Well," said Castiel, looking away this time, "Although all angels have fallen, I have reason to believe that some of them have not lost their abilities yet."

"You mean there are still some of you who can heal and smite?"

"I believe so, yes," said Castiel. He paused, a pang of jealousy washing over him at the thought of some of his brothers and sisters still retaining their powers.

"And – and…" Dean ran his hand through his hair, tousling it up. "They won't want to…?" He didn't look like he wanted to say it.

"They wouldn't want to what, Dean?" Castiel asked him.

"Well," Dean hesitated. "They might not be very happy with you, y'know."

"I am aware, yes," the other man replied. "But a little bit of risk is essential. And what's the worst that could happen anyway?"

"Uh, I don't know, Cas," said Dean, making one of his sarcastic pouts, "You could die, for starters."

Castiel chuckled. He looked up at Dean, back into the green eyes which gave him so much comfort, which made him feel so serene. "What do I have to live for, Dean?"

The green eyes were filling up with pain now. Pain and worry. "Cas," Dean said quietly. "You…" he sighed. "Look, man, don't think like that, all right? It can't be all that bad…"

Castiel gave him a wan smile. "My father is gone. The whole harmony of heaven has been destroyed. All the angels have fallen. My brothers and sisters want revenge for what I've done." He paused. "And… You seem to be upset with me about something…"

"Hang on," said Dean, "_What_?"

"I have clearly upset you and your brother," said Castiel. "You don't want my help. You have been different with me since last night—"

Dean licked his lips. "Cas… I'm not upset with you. Neither is Sam."

"Then—"

"Sam genuinely doesn't like being coddled," Dean replied. "He hates needing help, and he hates, more than that, other people watching him take help. I just want to let him keep his dignity. I wasn't lying when I said that."

"And you?"

"I'm not angry with you. Not anymore. I was, before the third trial, but then you were there for me and Sam at the hospital, and you are offering your support despite your own problems… I couldn't be angry with you, okay? In fact, I'm really grateful for what you're doing for us. I just want you to take a break, man."

The kettle started to steam and Dean made his way to it, opening the hot water bottle and slowly filling it with the water. He added a little bit of cool water to it so the bottle wouldn't scald and checked the temperature with the back of his palm. Then he turned to Castiel. "I've gotta go now. Sammy isn't feeling well. You stick around."

It was an order, Castiel realised, as Dean exited the kitchen. He looked at his sopping mug and began to dry it, feeling very lucky to have Dean as a friend. The number of things that the elder Winchester had forgiven Castiel for… it was unbelievable. Castiel's own kin hadn't been as kind to him as Dean Winchester had. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this, and he thanked his father for the fact that he had been the one to raise Dean from perdition.

**~o~**

Sam reclined against the hospital bed as Cecelia came with the silvery chemotherapy bag and placed it on his IV stand, adjusting the pump. He had already been hydrated and provided with anti-emetics, but that did nothing to quell the anticipatory nausea that was bubbling in his stomach. While the nurse worked on hooking him to the drug, Dr Greene paid a visit to Sam's room.

"Good morning, Sam," she said. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," Sam replied, as Cecelia finished adjusting his IV. Dean pulled his stool closer to Sam the moment the woman was gone.

"Any nausea or vomiting?" Dr Greene asked him seriously.

"Yeah, both," Sam replied. "The nausea is almost always there."

"How many episodes of vomiting have you had?"

"Two yesterday," said Sam. "One this morning."

"That isn't bad," she said, "But let me see if I can slip you something else to reduce it further — though I'm afraid this might be the maximum we can go to."

"Okay," said Sam.

"Anything else?" she asked him.

"Yeah, dizziness," Sam replied. _Embarrassing dizziness_. "And stomach cramps."

"Keep up your electrolytes," the doctor replied. "For the cramps, I'd suggest fomentation and rest. I'd rather not prescribe too many drugs on the side, as the chemotherapy drugs can interact wrongly with them. We don't want you having a reaction to anything."

"I did the fomentation," said Sam.

"Did you feel better?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, turning to Dean and silently thanking him for the help. He could feel the etoposide course through his veins, it was warm; it burned slightly, and he could feel a tingling as the drug climbed into his body and entered his bloodstream.

Dr Greene stood at the doorway for a minute and gave the brothers a smile. "You are really lucky that you have a brother to watch over you, Sam," she said. She put her hands in her pockets, her eyes reverting to the IV stand. "Okay, so far, I presume?"

"I'm good for now," Sam replied, returning her smile. "The session isn't as long as yesterday's is it?"

"No," she said, "but the side effects could hit you sooner today." She eyed the bucket that Cecelia had placed below Sam's bed, just in-case. Apparently, the emesis basin was a misnomer for the kidney dish, as Cecelia had explained to Sam before the session had begun, when she had put the bucket.

The doctor spoke again. "Take care, and come to me if anything gets overwhelming."

"Yes, Doc," said Sam and with a nod at Dean, Dr Greene left the room. Just as she did so, Sam reclined against his bed, shutting his eyes against the tiredness creeping up on him.

He listened to Dean unzip the duffel and in a few moments the crackle of pages of the ancient tome could be heard. Sam licked his lips and turned to his brother, opening his eyes a little as he watched Dean read the book. He had rarely seen the other Winchester this way; concentrating on a book so hard, read so seriously, and he couldn't help the wave of gratitude that washed over him.

He lay like that, napping a few minutes, staying awake a few minutes, until the nausea rose again. He fought it down for a while, but it won, and he realised that he was going to be sick. He swallowed. "Dean."

Dean looked up from the book and deciphered the look on Sam's face at once. "It's okay, Sammy," he said, putting away the book and propping Sam up on his bed with one hand, helping him bend over, as the other hand picked up the bucket. "I'm here," he said quietly and he held the bucket in place for Sam, cringing a little at the helpless retching that followed; his hand still steady on Sam's back.

Once again as he struggled to coax his stomach to settle, Sam thanked God for his brother for the umpteenth time in his life.

**~o~**

"Sam, come on, you have to eat."

Dean pushed the plate of food towards his brother, feeling helpless as Sam rested his elbow on the table with his forehead in his palm. It had been a few hours since the chemotherapy, and they were at the bunker, having lunch. Kevin had gone out somewhere and Castiel was still there, just the way that Dean had asked him to be. Sam hadn't vomited again after the hospital, but he still seemed mighty apprehensive about eating, and Dean found himself wishing again, that he could do something to help.

"Sammy," he pleaded.

Sam swallowed. "I can't, Dean. I'll throw up again if I do."

"You won't puke," Dean assured him. "You've taken the meds, and Dr Greene has even added something else to help you more. Just try eating now."

"No," Sam replied, as Castiel looked between the brothers from his seat.

Dean sighed. Once Sam had set his mind upon something, it was difficult to deter him. But Dean kept his hopes up. "Will you eat later, then? Once the meds have worked their magic?"

"I'll try," Sam promised. He looked at Dean with tired eyes. "Can I sleep for a while?"

"An hour," Dean said. "And then you have to eat, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam replied, standing up from his seat and stumbling a little, but righting himself at once. He was about to say something, but he hesitated.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Nothing… it's nothing." Sam licked his lips, apparently embarrassed, and Dean understood his implications at once.

"All yours," he said. "If you're comfortable on my bed, you can keep my room. I'll stay in your room in the meantime, okay?" He tried to say this as sincerely as he could, trying to assure Sam that his request wouldn't be used as ammunition in any future sibling fights.

"Thanks," Sam said, looking relieved.

"But I'm claiming it back when you get better, Sammy. You'd better not ruin the memory foam," Dean added lightly. Because Sam would get better. He had to. There were no two ways about that.

Sam nodded, apparently too tired to respond and shuffled away from the library. Dean heard him descend the two stairs into the hallway that led to bedrooms. Just as the elder Winchester took another bite of his burger, though, there was a loud crash from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone falling flat on the floor.

* * *

**A/N:** Muahahahahaha, cliffehhhhh! :D

Tell me what you think, please! Reviews are awesome, and you guys are awesome too, for trusting me with this story. Thank you, thank you so much! Love you guys! :)

Feedback? Please don't give me the silent treatment!


	7. Knowing Reality

**A/N: **Happy Sunday, guys, here's your update! :)

I was going to submit this past midnight — because it's closer to your midday, but I'm at home and I'm going for dinner to someone's place, and I have to wake up early tomorrow. So… here goes. :)

I now have a fabulous beta — BohemianMoose, so that I can be sure that this is better and readable. Thank you, Moose. :)

So, anyone at VanCon? So jealous, ha! Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much for the reviews, favs and follows. I never expected to cross 50 there. Eep!

As usual, more of those are welcome, and cherished too. Please don't forget to leave your thoughts!

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**6. Knowing Reality**

Dean was on his feet, his burger falling out of his grip and landing on his plate as its various layers slipped out sloppily. Castiel, who had been silent until now, had heard Sam fall and had realised that was something was wrong too, for he was at Dean's heels as the duo rushed to the hallway, Dean leaping down the flight of stairs and turning sharply to find Sam lying face-down on the floor.

"Shit, Sam!" he exclaimed before going down on a crouch and turning his brother over. He had a sense of déjà vu as he pressed two fingers to Sam's carotid, feeling, checking…

…How many times had he found Sam passed out like this in the last month itself?

_Twice. Not good._

Unlike the last time, though, when he'd been flushed with fever, Sam was deathly pale. His lips were almost white and his pulse was weak and rapid. Dean placed a hand on his brother's forehead to find it clammy and sweaty. He swore. He thought he knew what this was, and it wasn't good.

"Cas," he called out, and the former angel approached him. "I need your help here," he said, easing away Sam's shoes, ripping off his socks and starting to rub his large feet.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel replied, crouching beside him, "tell me what I have to do."

"Come on, Sammy," said Dean, rubbing Sam's feet some more. He took Sam's wrist in his hand and felt the pulse. Still not great. He turned to Castiel. "We've got to raise his legs for a while." He clutched on to Sam's right calf with both hands, and Castiel copied him, holding the other leg.

"Ready?"

The other man nodded, and together, they stood up, each holding up one of Sam's legs.

"His blood pressure's low," Dean explained to Castiel. "This will get the blood to his head, and he'll be able to wake up."

Castiel did not reply, and Dean pressed two fingers on the artery curving under the skin on Sam's foot, but he couldn't make it out as well as the other pulses, so he bit his lip.

"Listen, I know he's heavy," Dean said, "but could you hold the other leg? I need to check his pulse."

"I can do that," said Castiel, and he took his hand away from one of Sam's legs, taking the other from Dean's grip as the elder Winchester knelt next to his brother and took his wrist again. He sighed, noting a stronger pulse.

"Hey, wake up, now," he said, feeling Sam's forehead again. "Sam."

Sam gasped softly, and Dean felt relief wash over him. "Sammy?" He placed a palm on his brother's chest and rubbed softly. "Sammy, can you hear me?"

Sam sighed, and Dean checked the pulse again, noting that it was slowing, returning to normal. He could see the sheen of a thin film of sweat on Sam's face as his eyes opened slightly, rolling upwards with just slits of white visible between the lids.

"That's enough, Sam," said Dean, rubbing the palm of Sam's cool hand this time, "open your eyes."

There was no response, and Dean continued rubbing his brother's cold palm, waiting for him to wake up, as Castiel stoically stood holding up Sam's legs. After a few long moments that really seemed like hours, Sam's breath hitched and his eyes flew open.

"Thank God," Dean whispered, sitting back, and Castiel slowly lowered Sam's legs. "You scared us there."

"W-What happened?" Sam's voice was faint and hoarse.

"I heard you fall and when we came, you were passed out. We had to hold your legs up to get you awake."

Sam licked his lips and swallowed. "Must've been dizzy…" he said, "don't remember."

"It's okay, now," Dean replied, "let's get you to my room." He turned to Castiel. "I have a few bottles of Gatorade in the kitchen. Can you get us one of them?"

"Of course," Castiel walked away as Dean helped Sam sit up. The younger man swayed on being moved and immediately reached out to fist his elder brother's sleeve.

"Take it easy," said Dean, holding Sam up in the same position for a while, noticing that the pallor hadn't gone yet. "Think you can move yet?" he asked after a few moments.

Sam shook his head just as Castiel was back with a Gatorade. Taking it from the former angel, Dean unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle close to Sam's mouth. "Drink up, you'll feel better."

Sam promptly shook his head. Dean sighed. "Come on, Sam. Just two sips. I'll let you sleep after that."

Sam shook his head again, swallowing convulsively. His breath hitched again and his hand fisted Dean's sleeve tighter. "Sick…" he rasped weakly, swallowing again, and Dean was terrified at the tone and the lack of urgency, meaning Sam felt too crappy to actually move quickly.

"You're not going to be sick," said Dean. "Take deep breaths."

Sam shook his head, tears springing in his eyes as he swallowed again and gagged. "Dean…" he breathed, before clamping a hand over his mouth and gagging for a second time.

"Okay, okay, just breathe," Dean said, his heart racing at his brother's condition. He moved, putting an arm around Sam's shoulders. "We're going to get you to the bathroom, all right? Can you do that?"

Sam took a deep breath, nodded, and let go of Dean's sleeve as the latter helped him up. Together, they staggered to the bathroom and Dean deposited Sam in front of the toilet slowly, as the younger Winchester put his arms across the bowl and rested his forehead on them, too dizzy to stay upright for long.

Dean put a hand on his brother's back and rubbed slightly. "Take it easy, Sammy," he murmured, feeling almost as awful as Sam. He wished his brother didn't have to go through this.

Sam coughed weakly in reply, and then dry-heaved for a good ten minutes, the retches too feeble to actually trigger vomiting. He ended up just spitting out saliva, and Dean's heart broke as he sat there next to his brother, trying to soothe him — make him feel better in any way that he could. The bouts stopped and when Sam wearily raised his head, he was still white, and he ran a shaky hand across his face to wipe away the sweat and tears.

"Better?" asked Dean, knowing the answer. It was a hypotensive attack, and Sam was just dangerously nauseous — Dean had known he wouldn't actually throw up — that he _couldn't_ really throw up, but this seemed to satisfy Sam, and slowly, he nodded his head, while Dean started to rip off wads of toilet paper.

"Look here." Sam turned to Dean, but snatched the napkins from his hand and started to wipe his own face. Dean smiled at that. If Sam felt independent enough to stop his brother from interfering further, he was definitely feeling better. He flushed the toilet, crouched back down and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Back to the room?"

"Yeah," Sam rasped, and stood up by himself this time, albeit a little wobbly, with Dean at the ready to catch his brother if he fell again. They turned automatically to Dean's room and Dean pulled back the covers while Sam dropped himself onto the bed, eyes shutting as he laid an arm across them.

Dean opened one of his cabinets, finding the sphygmomanometer (they had always kept one because of the risk of internal bleeding in their line of work) and stethoscope. In a jiffy, he was rolling up his brother's sleeve and wrapping the cuff around his arm. He felt the brachial pulse, put the diaphragm of the stethoscope over it and began to inflate the cuff.

He waited to hear the thumping sounds on the stethoscope as he let out the air, and they started at hundred. However, something clenched in his chest when he noted that they only stopped at fifty. Without further ado, Dean unwrapped the cuff and rushed back to the hallway to fetch the Gatorade. Electrolytes. Sam needed them now.

When he returned, Sam was shivering, eyes open again, and Dean pulled out two pillows and placed them below Sam's legs so they'd remain raised. He then threw the blanket over his brother. "You need to drink this," he told Sam.

"N-no," said Sam, still cold under the blankets and Dean withdrew to Sam's room to get him an extra blanket, which comforted him more.

"Not an option," Dean said plainly, addressing Sam's refusal to have the Gatorade, as he sat on the bed, next to Sam. "You have to get some electrolytes in you. You won't throw up," he told his brother, before he could protest, "your BP is low, Sam, you have to drink this."

Sam sighed, propped himself up and accepted the drink. Dean kicked the trashcan closer to his bed, but he was right; the Gatorade made Sam feel a little better. He didn't throw up; in fact, he drank up half the bottle before giving it back to Dean.

"Now go back to sleep," the elder Winchester said, as he lay back down on his pillows. "You get two hours, okay?"

"Thanks," Sam croaked, shutting his eyes again as sleep took over his senses almost immediately. He shivered a little, once again, and Dean wrapped the blankets around him tighter, and also bumped up the thermostat a few degrees to make Sam more comfortable.

Castiel was in the war room when Dean returned to his misshapen burger, and Dean couldn't stop his hands from shaking while he ate.

_Chemotherapy._

_Day One: Terrible._

_Day Two: Scary as fuck._

There was another day of this, and then nine more, and Dean didn't know how he'd be able to live through it all.

**~o~**

Sam was feeling better when he woke up. His head spun a little and he felt shaky all over, but he was better than before. He turned to his side, his throat dry, and saw the Gatorade still sitting on his nightstand, which he drank up thirstily. Some of the jitter left him and he sighed, sitting up further.

He ran a hand through his hair as he pulled the blankets closer around him. Dean hadn't come to wake him up yet, which meant that his two hours weren't up. He contemplated going to the library, where he had no doubt he would find his brother, but he wasn't sure of himself now. At lunch, he had only felt a little dizzy and had headed to the room to get some sleep, but it turned out that his health had other plans for him, for he had woken up a few minutes later to Dean's anxious face lingering above his, and Castiel awkwardly holding his legs up.

Seriously. Was there anything else that was left to happen now?

"Sam?"

Sam looked up to see his brother enter the room with another bottle of Gatorade in his hand and relief on his face. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better," said Sam truthfully.

"Can you drink this?" Dean asked him, holding up the bottle.

"Yeah," he replied, and accepted it from his brother. Dean sat down on the chair next to the bed as Sam started to gulp down the sweet liquid, instantly feeling a little more energised. Once he was done, Dean took his blood pressure again and this time it was a hundred over sixty. "Thank God," he said, deflating the cuff and putting it away. "You wanna sleep some more?"

"No, I'm good," Sam said to him, pushing back the blankets. "What are you up to?"

"Well, I was thinking we could go on a walk once you woke up…"

"Were you researching?"

"Yeah."

"And Cas?"

"Cas too," said Dean, "he's in the library. Want to go for that walk, then? We could ask him to join us."

"Uh… okay," said Sam.

Dean left the room and Sam washed his face in the bathroom, changed into a new set of clothes and went to the war room, where Dean was waiting for him with the food that he had put away earlier. Sam ate without complaining — the nausea was in control at that moment, and Castiel joined them for the walk after that.

As they walked past the Impala and together down the lane outside the bunker, Sam couldn't help but notice that Castiel was unusually quiet. He remembered his discussion with Dean about how Castiel might take time to adjust, and so far, after Sam's diagnosis, he couldn't remember speaking much to the former angel at all. Well, Sam had spent a lot of time sulking, puking and sleeping, but even then, he felt he owed Castiel some gratitude for being so supportive.

He cleared his throat. "Hey, Cas?"

"Yes?" Castiel looked past Dean, at Sam.

"I never said," Sam replied, "thanks. For everything."

"I haven't done anything."

"No, well, this afternoon…" Sam hesitated, "and you've been there since the start too."

"It's not a problem, Sam," said Castiel, smiling faintly at the younger Winchester. "You and Dean have done a lot for me too. You've forgiven me when you shouldn't have. You two are probably the only ones who still accept me despite everything."

Sam realised then that Dean had abruptly stopped on his tracks. Sam was a step ahead, along with Castiel, when Dean spoke up. "Hey, wait a minute."

Sam and Castiel both turned to the elder Winchester, who was frowning at the former angel as he started to walk again. "How many times have I told you not to talk crap like that, Cas? What's happened has happened, and you can't keep punishing yourself for it, okay?"

"Yes, and the damage is done," Castiel said quietly. "If only it were reversible…"

"Come on, man," Dean sighed, "you've gotta stop dwelling on that. We will find a way. I told you."

"_How_, Dean?" Castiel asked the other man sharply. "How exactly are we going to do that?"

"Jeez, Cas, do I have to say it to you too? We're in a fucking geek home, and they're bound to have something there. You and Sam should seriously get married, you know, with the way you both brood and wallow."

"We have resources," said Castiel, obviously ignoring Dean's next comment, "but there's not much time. Metatron knows who you are — and what we all are capable of now. Even if my Grace hasn't been destroyed already…"

"He will do no such thing, Cas."

"You don't know that, Dean."

Dean stopped again, and this time, Sam and Castiel stopped too. The elder Winchester washed a hand over his face. "We'll hurry up, then."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, we're losing Sam, and we need to concentrate on that first," Castiel snapped.

"Boy, don't I love it when you get all touchy," said Dean blandly, and Castiel started to walk again. Dean moved forward and clutched at the latter's shoulder. "Hey, I've promised I'll help, and I will, okay? I'm not giving up till you can smite, heal and zap about again."

"You're awfully kind," said Castiel, finally smiling sadly and patting the hand on his shoulder. Dean drew it away, bewildered, as Castiel continued to speak, "But you don't know when to stop trying. I think it's time to accept, my friend, that nothing can be done about my situation."

Dean stepped backwards, looked down, fidgeting with his hands, and Sam puffed up his cheeks and let out a breath. He hadn't realised until now, what other responsibilities his brother was giving up, just so he could get Sam out of his illness. He licked his lips, thinking again, of how much he hated what he had been reduced to. That was when an idea struck him.

"Hey guys," he said quietly, so Dean and Castiel looked towards him, "I have an idea."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Not healing you isn't an option, Sammy."

"No, don't worry — that's what I'm talking about — maybe there's a quicker way, and we just forgot about it."

"Yeah? What?"

Sam smiled at his brother. "Crowley."

"Crowley." Dean looked exasperated.

"Yes," replied Sam, "he healed Bobby once, didn't he?"

"Yeah, and you think he'd help? Even if he has the mojo?" Dean had now crossed his arms in front of his chest, which meant that he wasn't sure of Sam's plan, but his expression told Sam that he was ready to give it a go.

"He's lost a lot of his powers," said Sam, "but he might just not have lost his healing abilities. He's still a demon."

Dean swallowed, his duck-face making an appearance, and Sam smiled, realising that he hadn't seen it in a long time. "Well," said the elder Winchester, "we could give it a try. Certainly beats reading all those fugly books."

They finished their walk because Dean was still stubborn about Sam's health, and when they got back, Sam and Dean headed to the dungeon where they had held Crowley, Sam crossing his fingers and hoping that the demon would help.

**~o~**

Dean could feel his heart racing as he and Sam unlocked the storage room, and then the dungeon. Thankfully — in a way — Crowley was demon enough not to need a lot of human things, which meant they could just hold him in the dungeon without many facilities. The demon, however, spoke the moment the door to the dungeon was opened.

"Ah, I know I was irresistible." Crowley was sitting in the devil's trap, cross-legged. His facial expression suggested he was bored as he fiddled with his handcuffs.

"Yeah, right," said Dean, shining his flashlight at a spot near the demon, so he could see him and Sam. "We couldn't wait."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "You're not just here to flirt with me, are you?"

"No, we need a favour," said Dean, moving forward, and getting to the point.

"Yes, and I'm about to grant it to you after all the kindness you've shown me," said Crowley exasperatedly, standing up from his place.

"This is enough kindness," Dean snapped, "we can leave you to Abaddon, if you'd prefer that."

There was silence. Crowley sighed. "What do you want?"

Dean pointed his flashlight to Sam and cocked his head in his direction. "Still got your healing mojo?"

"Oh," said Crowley, "want me to make Moose as good as new, do you? Sorry, Squirrel, I can't do that."

"Hey, we can—"

"I said I _can't_," Crowley replied, "not that I _won't_. My powers aren't strong enough."

"You can still try, can't you?" Dean asked him, realising that he sounded desperate. Whatever. This was Sam, and there was nothing he wouldn't do to get him okay.

Something lodged itself inside Dean's throat. He hadn't realised how much he had been relying on Crowley the whole time, during his walk with Sam and Castiel. This had to be it… Crowley had to have these powers. Maybe he just wasn't sure enough about them, when they were really there.

Crowley opened his mouth, probably for another sarcastic reply, but then he nodded. "I suppose I could, yes."

"Good." Sam and Dean stepped into the devil's trap and Dean pulled out the key to undo Crowley's handcuffs. "No tricks, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Crowley replied, and Dean took off the handcuffs. He stepped away as Sam went and stood before the demon.

Crowley shut his eyes, and Dean crossed his fingers inside his pockets as the demon reopened his eyes and clicked his fingers. There was a moment of silence.

"Well?" questioned the elder Winchester. He saw Crowley's expression change into an unfamiliar one, which, Dean realised, was sympathy.

_Sympathy_. Oh no. No. "Sam?" Dean whispered. Sam hadn't moved. He was just looking at Crowley, and then, Dean saw the tiny nod that escaped his younger brother.

"Well?" Dean asked again.

Sam turned around. "I think we should find another way."

Dean was sure he heard something shatter inside him. He wondered how Sam or Crowley didn't flinch. Stoically, he went ahead and put the handcuffs back on the demon, who looked genuinely sorry. Dean, though, didn't have the emotional capacity or the patience to listen to any demonic apologies, and quietly, he guided Sam out of the room by grabbing the other man's wrist.

They made their way to the war room, Dean not saying a single word. Sam looked oddly calm, and he wondered how Sam was taking this so much better than he was, since Sam was the one who was suffering. But then again, his brother never got angry at the right times. He always used his anger in the wrong places.

Sam wanted to help with the research. Dean wanted Sam to rest, but he begged, fought and bitched his way into the library, finally threatening not to drink any more Gatorade if Dean continued to treat him like a child, and Dean, tired of his complaining, let him sit in the library with him and Castiel.

He placed a Gatorade before Sam as he took out his book. "You know," Dean said, "I wouldn't treat you like a kid if you didn't behave like one. Now drink up, or you don't get a book."

Sam drank half a bottle, frowned at Dean, and then flipped him off before running to the bathroom to nullify all of Dean's efforts.

**~o~**

"You good?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

Sam huffed as he leafed through the book, trying to find something to get a lead on the spell that Metatron had used to cast the angels out of Heaven. He had decided that since Dean and Castiel were looking for ways to keep him alive, he might as well help the former angel from his side. Castiel shut his book and receded to his bedroom, leaving the brothers alone in the library. There was silence after that, for half-an-hour, as Sam read on, and then again, he was interrupted.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam looked up at Dean and crossed his arms. "What do you want from me?"

"Don't give me your bitch-face, Sam, I'm just concerned," said Dean, glaring up at his younger brother from his book.

"Well, you might just smother me to death with all that _concern_," Sam snapped at him.

"Yeah?" Dean said, leaning forward and putting his hands on the table. "Now correct me if I'm wrong, who is it who has fainted once and puked thrice today?"

"If you don't shut up, the same person might make sure they puke on _you _when it happens for the fourth time," said Sam irately. "And I didn't _faint_. My BP was low. There's a difference."

"And that's not a big deal at all," muttered Dean, returning to his book. "Sure, it's just cancer. It happens to everyone."

"You two should stop fighting," said a voice, and Sam turned to see Castiel enter the library with a bag in his hand. Dean's eyes widened at this and he stood up.

"Cas, where are you—?"

"I'm not leaving for good, Dean," said Castiel quietly, coming forward. "I'll just be going away for a few days."

"Where?"

"To locate my brothers and sisters."

Dean sighed. "I thought we agreed it isn't a good idea, Cas. They might want to kill you."

"I'm aware," replied Castiel, "but I'll give it a try. Maybe one of them can heal Sam."

"Cas…"

"Don't thank me, Dean," said Castiel, "you have done too much for me. This is my gratitude. I promise I'll be in touch." He reached into his bag and drew out his angel sword. "Here," he said, handing it to Dean, "this might be useful to you."

Dean didn't take it. "What about you?"

"I don't need this anymore," Castiel replied simply. "Angels can be killed with regular knives now. However, you might need it."

Dean swallowed. "Don't die, okay?"

"I won't," said Castiel. "Keep me informed about Sam's health, and if you find a cure before I do."

"I will, Cas."

There was silence. Castiel licked his lips. "I should leave, then."

Wordlessly, the Winchesters followed him out of the bunker, and walked with him to a distance to which he could find a taxi. They stopped a cab, but before he got in, Castiel turned to the brothers. "I'll see you." Unexpectedly, Castiel's arms were around Sam after that, and though Sam was taken aback at first, he returned the hug.

Castiel broke away and turned to the other Winchester. "Dean."

Simultaneously, he and Dean were leaning in, hugging as Dean slapped Castiel's back twice, and then they broke away, their eyes never leaving each other, as Castiel nodded at Dean.

"You take care, Cas," said Dean, as the former angel got into the waiting taxi. They waved him goodbye as the taxi drove away, and the brothers turned to get back to the bunker together. Sam kept quiet all the way that they walked, a very funny, unexpected thought lingering in his head.

He had never quite figured out the bond between Dean and Castiel, but what he had seen just now had triggered some of his doubts from before. He had no idea about Castiel, but having known Dean all his life, he sometimes suspected that his brother nurtured some more-than-just-friendly feelings for Castiel. Of course, the way that Sam and Dean had been raised, there had been no room for them to explore their sexualities, but when Sam teased his brother for being butch enough to be mistaken for being overcompensating, he hadn't just been teasing — he had hoped that Dean would give it a thought.

Sam took pride in having known Dean all his life — in being one of the few people to be able to see through his brother's mask and his tough exterior, and this too, he was quite certain about. He wondered if Dean thought about it sometimes — if Dean questioned his feelings for Castiel. But Dean being the way he was, he probably ignored any doubts that sprang up.

"You done daydreaming, or should I physically shake you out of it?" Dean's voice cut through Sam's thoughts and he turned his attention back to his brother, who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Earth to Sammy."

"Very funny," Sam muttered as they reached the bunker, but Dean didn't respond. Sam just heard him let out a breath instead and he wondered if Dean was feeling lonely without Castiel. But then he pushed away the thought and prepared his weapons for the next banter with his brother as he entered the bunker, reminding himself that Dean was an adult, and that he could act on any feelings that he had to, without Sam's help.


	8. Nadir

**A/N: **Hello!

Sorry I'm late again, but I'm way too busy and my muse is all haywire. I have my final exams in January and we have preliminary exams in November before that and revision exams until we get our Diwali holidays. Plus I have lectures and hospital rounds over all of it and my muse is going haywire with stress. Either ways, my fingers are aching right now because I was completing my practical record book right now and we have to write down 50 cases by Saturday. There is an exam on that day too, as an added bonus. So I'm really, really sorry about all the delay here.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, BohemianMosse for the amazing, speedy turn-around on this! :)

Either ways, I hope you guys like this chapter. It was one of the more emotional ones that I had to write and it's hard. Thank you for all your feedback and support, and please continue to be lovely, as it greatly encourages me! :)

* * *

_SS, your memories still light me up in the nadirs of my life. Happy birthday. :)_

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**7. Nadir**

_Nadir._

The term 'nadir' means low point — any low point, and that was what Dr Greene used for the period when Sam's blood counts were bound to be low. It meant easy infection, easy bleeding and anaemic symptoms. For the doctor, and from the perspective of Sam's illness, it was a purely physical term. However, as the treatment progressed, Dean thought of it differently. For him, Sam's nadirs eventually started to mean something else entirely. Something far from physical. And soon, he'd come to dread those moments.

Meanwhile, day three seemed to arrive and go by very, very slowly. It was routine, as Dean waited with Sam through the third and last chemo session, relieved when the nurse disconnected the cannula and removed the catheter. And then he sat by his brother and tried to comfort him and help him through the side-effects, which were just as bad and terrifying as they had been on the first two days.

For a week after that, Sam suffered with constant nausea, bouts of vomiting that often turned nasty, making him sore all over; dizzy spells, and stomach cramps that kept him up at night. The IV site was red and swollen and it caused pain, and Dean found himself handing Sam warm compresses to ease it. But then, none of these things seemed permanent and they got better with each passing day — Sam felt better too. Even from his primary disease, the coughing was mostly controlled, and Sam was eating and exercising and cooperating with Dean and Dr Greene. So Dean was optimistic — almost optimistic, until the other side-effects started to show up.

It started with him getting sunburnt off the evening sun. The skin on his neck was red when they got back from their walk, and the chaffing of his collar against the tender area didn't help much. It was a painful night for him when combined with the residual cramps, and Dean dozed off of on a chair next to Sam's bed, not wanting his little brother to be all by himself.

They bought sunblock the next day, but that wasn't before Sam had woken up to a sore in his mouth, which turned into many sores over the next few days. To minimise Sam's pain, Dean bought him lots of soft foods and kept him on purees, oatmeal, rice and mostly just liquids. There was no optimistic side to this — none, but then Dean remembered that Sam was at least drinking enough water, so his kidneys wouldn't get banged up from the treatment. Soon enough, Dean had learned home remedies for things he wouldn't have imagined even bothering with.

Sam, on the other hand, came quietly to the clinics, and let the nurse poke and prod him some more. His sodium levels seemed stable, and he seemed to be reacting well to the drugs as of now. When he felt too sick, he let his brother help him, and when he was better, he bitched and whined and gave Dean the finger, but let him help anyway. Every night, before going to bed, he thanked Dean, and Dean asked him not to be silly, because why would anyone thank their brother for doing his duty? That was stupid. Sam, however, courteous as he was, didn't stop thanking Dean and after a few days, Dean accepted the gratitude and asked Sam to shut the fuck up and just sleep.

Kevin left to stay with Garth a few days after the last chemo session, and he explained frankly to Dean that he wanted him and Sam to have their privacy. Dean reluctantly let him go, knowing that Kevin could be in danger, but then the kid wanted to go, and he couldn't stop him. So finally, it was just him and Sam in the bunker. There were good days where they'd sit down and watch a movie or practise together at the target range, and then there were days when both of them would be frustrated, and there would eventually be a fight. It was on one such day — a bad day for both their moods, that Dean snapped.

He had made oatmeal for Sam, who was in some kind of a whiny mood or something — he wasn't sure what it was — so when Dean put the oatmeal on the table before Sam who had been researching Metatrons's spell, the younger Winchester pushed it away. "Not hungry."

It was ten days since chemo and Sam hadn't thrown up in a while, so Dean wasn't taking any of his fussing this time. "Eat, Sam."

"I hate oatmeal."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Okay, someone's being picky about their food today. Should I make you something else? Pureed carrots?"

"I'm not a baby."

"Yeah, but you've got a sore the size of one in your mouth."

Sam put down his book and sighed. "I want to sleep."

"Sam, just finish eating this. Then you can do what you want."

Sam glared at Dean. "Who are _you_ to tell me what to do?"

"Your older brother," said Dean easily, "anything else?"

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Just go, Dean."

Dean felt concern wash over him. "What is it, Sam?"

"Nothing," Sam insisted. "I just… let me be, okay?" He stood up from his chair and gestured to his lunch. "I'll have that later."

Dean licked his lips. "Sam, is there anything—?"

"Oh, _God_, enough already!" Sam snapped, shutting the book and tucking it under his arm. He paused. "I'm sorry. I…" he let out a puff of breath, "just go take your time, Dean, I'll be fine."

"Okay," said Dean, "you'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and Dean frowned at that.

"Headache?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, "it's all right, really. It should be gone with some sleep."

"I'll ring up Dr Greene," Dean replied, pulling out his phone.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because she said—"

"It's a headache, Dean," said Sam exasperatedly. "It will go. I have had loads of these before." He turned around, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'die sooner'.

"What was that?" Dean was quick on the pick-up.

"Nothing."

"Spit it out."

Sam faced Dean and looked into his eyes. "I said, if it's something else, at least I'll die sooner."

Dean felt a jolt of frustration rise in him. Why did Sam have to do this? "You're not dying, Sam."

"Sure."

"You said you'd—"

"Yeah," Sam replied, interrupting Dean. "I said I'd fight. But guess what, it's not easy."

"And you didn't know that?"

"I did, but apparently, _you_ don't."

"Sam, I know—"

"Dean," Sam said, clenching his jaw, "you know _nothing_. You're just trying to be encouraging. But you know what? You don't have cancer — _I_ do. And _I_ should be allowed to decide whether I want to fight or not!"

"So what is it then?" Dean asked, his anger getting the better of him. "What do you want to do? What do you want _me_ to do? Do you want to stop chemo? Should I call the doc and ask her to cancel your treatment? _What, _Sam_?_"

Sam stood there, frozen, and Dean realised what he had just said. He took a deep breath and threw his hands up.

"I'm going for a walk. You sleep, and we'll talk about this later." He picked up his jacket and drained his beer, heading to the stairs that led to the balcony, but heard Sam's voice a moment later.

"Maybe you _should_ cancel it."

Dean huffed at his brother's dramatic reply and took another step, but Sam spoke again. "I'm serious, Dean."

He turned around, raising an eyebrow. "Sure," he said, his heart coming up to his throat.

His brother shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? I…" Sam licked his lips. "I can't…" He averted his eyes from Dean and looked down.

"Sam…"

"No, please… hear me out," said Sam, taking a step towards Dean, but the latter raised his hand.

"Go get some sleep. You're out of your mind."

"No, I'm not."

"You are too. Go inside. I'll take that walk. Then I'll throw away the oatmeal and fix you chicken soup once you wake up. You like that, don't you?" Dean was babbling.

"Dean, please listen to me."

"Later, Sam." Dean took the stairs, his heart thumping, and as he opened the door to go outside, he heard Sam head back to his room. Once he had shut the door behind him, though, Dean sank down onto one of the stairs outside and buried his face in his hands, forcing himself to breathe. No. No. Sam wouldn't discontinue treatment. He'd change his mind. He was just tired and frustrated, and it was understandable.

But was Dean being fair? He was literally going back on the same path with Sam — forcing him to live up to his own expectations. Forcing him to fight. He was being his dad. And like Sam said, it was his life, his health and his body, and he had a say in whether he wanted to fight or not. The chemo was painful for Dean to watch, and he couldn't imagine how much worse it was for Sam. And he didn't want to cause his brother any more agony.

Dean stood up about ten minutes later, his legs slightly shaky, when the door opened, and Sam was standing there. The younger man opened his mouth, and then shut it. "I'm sorry."

"What are you apologising for?" Dean was holding on to the railing, still willing himself to breathe. "It's—" he swallowed, "it's your choice, okay? You're right. I won't stop you."

"No, I thought about it," replied the younger Winchester, "and I… I'm not discontinuing treatment. I just… I was angry, y'know? It was a hasty decision. But I also know…" he chuckled, trailing away, "well, you're going to be a pain in my ass for as long as you can, so I might as well try and stick around to return the favour."

Dean sighed. "Sam… I'm not forcing this on you. I don't want to. I need you to know that."

"I know."

"And if at any point, you don't feel like carrying on…" Dean licked his lips, "you're not letting me down by giving up, okay? I'm always going to…" He swallowed, unable to say it. "You know, right?"

Sam averted eyes from him, looked down, and nodded. "Yeah. I know."

"I don't want any of this pain for you either, man," Dean confessed to his brother. "It bugs me. I wish I could do something — believe me, I do… I just… don't want you to die, Sammy." It came out as a desperate plea. Dean looked away. "But – but…" there was a lump in his throat, "I don't want you to be in pain either."

Sam's eyes were shining, and he blinked a few times before nodding. "I should… I'm tired," he said in a slightly raspy voice. "See you later."

Dean nodded, giving him a wan smile. "Get your ass to bed. I'll be back in an hour."

Sam smiled back and returned inside. Dean waited for the door to shut and sat back down on the stairs as an unexpected tear fell out of his eye. He swiped it away with the heel of his hand, biting his lip against another one and gasping as a third one came. Burying his face in his palms and trying to calm himself after that, he thought of what his brother had just said to him.

_You're going to be a pain in my ass for as long as you can, so I might as well try and stick around to return the favour._

It was Winchester code for the fact that Sam knew Dean would always be there for him, and for that, for Dean, he would fight.

After his walk, Dean apologised to Sam. It wasn't their first fight since the chemo had begun, it wasn't their first fight with regard to anything, but Dean apologised anyway. They didn't talk about it again, but Dean sat with Sam as he ate the chicken soup, because he was scared — _so_ scared that the time he had remaining with his brother was decreasing drastically, that he didn't want Sam to hold anything against him. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if that happened.

He had, however, decided one thing: if this went downhill, if there wasn't anything they could do for Sam and if Sam ended up — Dean swallowed as he thought of it — _dead_, then he, Dean would follow the kid. Because, really, he didn't want anything to do with anything anymore. This was the last straw and if it were meant to be that way, it would have to be the final one for both Sam and Dean, and not just one of them.

**~o~**

The days passed, some pleasant, some unpleasant; and then came the time for Sam's (physical, as Dean would classify it later) nadir. It was in the middle of the second week for etoposide and in the third week for cisplatin, and Sam had to start being very careful with everything — he wasn't allowed to get hurt, or fall sick. Getting hurt was unavoidable, though, and when Sam did injure himself one day, Dean was alarmed at how much he bled, and almost called the hospital, but then the bleeding mercifully stopped, and it was all okay. Sam's regular toothbrush was replaced by a soft one for kids when he injured his gum while brushing one morning, causing it to bleed like a bitch.

Dean kept his brother away from all kinds of places that were bound to have a lot of people, and prepared Sam's food with Sam-like OCD because Sam couldn't afford to contract an infection, like the doctor said. That was all good — it worked well, and Sam even stopped whining about it. And then a bad bout of flu started to go around, and with all the Winchester luck that he had, Dean caught it.

It was a terrible attack. Dean had a scalding fever, blasting headaches, and he sat up all night coughing and wheezing, his nose stuffy. He bought surgical masks that very day, miraculously getting to the drugstore with the fact that his eyes barely remained open from the stickiness in them. He also bought a new thermometer that he could use, since he didn't want him and Sam to share one. He then wore the masks around the bunker, trying not to suffocate from the way they seemed to restrict the air supply, because, no, Sam couldn't fall sick.

Once Sam had gone to bed after the first, particularly bad day with both of them being sick, Dean fell asleep in Sam's previous room, the door open so he could get up at his brother's slightest beckoning, his fever-addled brain bringing up a memory from his childhood in the form of a dream.

_Sam was four months old. He could turn over now, and Dean would sit in his nursery and talk to his brother just to see Sammy shriek with delight and pound his little fists against the mattress every time Dean made a silly face. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world to make Sam happy and Dean would feel like a true big brother every time his baby brother looked up at him with those large, adoring eyes. _

_One day, however, Dean fell sick. He had a cold, and he was congested, and his parents wouldn't let him very close to Sam that day. "He could fall sick, sweetheart," Mary explained to the elder brother when he sulked in his room. And then she made Dean a bowl of tomato rice soup and sang him to sleep, so Dean was feeling better later on. Dean always remembered her words and kept the notion in his head that he wasn't supposed to make Sam sick._

But now, right now, Sam was sick because of him. He had known that he was dying, and that he would die if he completed the trials, but he did it anyway, so Dean wouldn't be disappointed in him. And then it had all led to this mess. And now Sam had cancer, _fucking_ cancer and he was really sick. Dean had made him sick. So sick…

"Dode…"

He could feel wetness on the corner of his mouth, hot breath hitting against the pillow. His nose was blocked and his throat hurt. He smacked his lips. Ugh. Was he drooling?

"Dean?"

"… Dode bake Sabby sig…"

"What?" A large hand felt Dean's forehead. There was a sigh. "You're burning up."

"Go," Dean said irately, swatting the hand away. "Bob said… dot to bake…"

"Bob? Not to bake what?"

"He'd turd over ad…"

"You aren't making any sense." There was bright light in Dean's eyes, and he pulled the blanket over his face.

"Saaab!"

"Pull the blanket down for a minute, Dean, I need to check your temperature."

"Doe. You go." Dean's nose was stuffy again. And what was Sam doing in the room? He was supposed to be asleep.

"Okay," said Sam. Dean's blanket was forced down and fingers pried his mouth open to push in a thermometer. "You leave me no choice. Put that under your tongue." Dean obeyed and opened his eyes to see Sam standing over his bed, frowning down at him. "You look awful," he stated. The thermometer beeped and Sam took it out, sighing and heading for the Tylenol on Dean's nightstand.

Dean groaned and rubbed at his forehead. "Ged outa here," he said, sniffling and reaching for a tissue.

"I heard you coughing," Sam said.

"I'b fide. You go."

"Sure." Dean was still blindly reaching for the tissue, but Sam took it out of the box and gave it to the other man.

"Adleast wear a bask," Dean said, blowing his nose into the tissue and throwing it into the dustbin.

Sam didn't argue. He just opened the chest of drawers where Dean kept the masks and pulled one on. "Happy?" he asked, his voice muffled under the fibre. He came back to his brother and sat down on the chair next to the bed, removing two Tylenol and handing them to the elder Winchester.

Dean sat up and swallowed them down with the water that Sam handed him. His headache was just awful and his throat was really sore. "How're you feelig?" he rasped at Sam.

"Okay," Sam shrugged.

Dean sank back into his pillows. "Good. Dow go back ad sleeb."

"Yeah. Just wanted to check on you."

"That's _by_ job."

"And sometimes, mine too."

There was silence. Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam's tender expression. "You're dot goig to hug be, are you?"

"Nah," said Sam, standing up. "You're too gross anyway."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, and when Sam turned around at the door, Dean spoke. "Bitch."

**~o~**

Sam drifted off to sleep once he had made sure that Dean was medicated. Sure, he was in all sorts of pain and was struggling enough, but that didn't mean he couldn't take care of Dean if that needed to happen. Besides, Dean looked just horrible. His fever was at a hundred and two and the way he was breathing from his mouth, Sam was sure that his nose was stuffed.

The younger Winchester let out a sneeze of his own before pulling the quilt over himself and turning over, taking in the smell of the Impala from Dean's bed. It made him so comfortable… like he was home. He knew that Dean considered the bunker his home, but for Sam, it was more of an exciting library of information.

For him, home meant the Impala… because that was the only thing apart from Dean that had been so constant for him — so permanent. Home meant him and Dean in the Impala — in the backseat during their childhood either bantering, or sometimes getting into miniature scuffles. They'd got older after that and sometimes Dean drove and Sam was still at the back, but they still bantered. And then, after Stanford, after Jessica, it was the Impala again. Going around and hunting, pranking each other… and most importantly, Sam wouldn't forget that the reason he was able to beat Lucifer was the Impala. That, and Dean. So yes, these were the two things that said home to him. And while he was in pain, being in Dean's room, among Dean's things and dwelling in the scent of the Impala was the biggest comfort he could have, apart from his brother physically being there.

He didn't realise how long he had been asleep — how long these thoughts had been drifting in and out of his mind, but he was jerked awake at the beeping of his phone. He stretched, and turned over to the nightstand where his phone lay. He yawned, squinting at the screen, which informed him that it was seven in the morning. Also, he had a text message from Charlie. He slid down the notifications bar and opened the message.

_You guys home? In the neighbourhood and thinking of dropping by. :) _

_xx _

Sam smacked his lips and sat up on the bed with a groan. His body felt a little sore and his head was throbbing mildly but overall, he felt all right. But he needed to check on Dean and ask him what to tell Charlie, because a lot had changed since the last time, and they still hadn't broken the news of Sam's illness to her, and also because both Sam and Dean weren't in the best of health.

He entered his brother's room to see him asleep, breathing heavily through his mouth and snoring slightly. There was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead which suggested that the fever had probably broken. Sam knocked at the door open door. "Dean."

"Huuuuhhhh."

"Dean, wake up, Charlie just messaged me."

Sam entered the room, immediately heading to the drawer with the masks and pulling one on before Dean could freak out. He drew the chair beside Dean, who groggily opened an eye. "Whyd'ya keeb cobig here, Sab? Go, before you catch this thig."

"Charlie texted me," said Sam, ignoring Dean and placing a hand on his forehead. Dean swatted it away again but he was cooler, as Sam had expected. The younger brother extracted two Tylenol for his brother and handed it to him anyway. "Here."

Dean accepted the pills. "You feelig fide?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," said Sam, grimacing at his throbbing head, but Dean couldn't make it out, thanks to the mask covering half of Sam's face. "Just a slight headache, s'all. So what should I tell her?"

"Who, Charlie?"

"Yeah. Apparently she's in the vicinity."

"So tell her to drob in!"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, why dot?"

"Because…" Sam hesitated. "What are we going to tell her?" He gestured to himself. "And I don't think you should be running about very much either."

"Ab fide," Dean said, pushing himself up on the bed roughly. "Ad we'll tell her the trudh."

Sam nodded. "Okay. I'll ask her to come," he said, and started to type a reply. He stood up. "Let's get ready then. We need to look less sick if we're expecting a guest."

**~o~**

Charlie reacted exactly the way Sam was expecting her to. She was speechless for a few moments, and then she pulled him into a hug, keeping him that way for a long time. He let her hug him and wrapped his arms around her. When she pulled away, she seemed to be swiping a finger under her eye.

"Well," she sniffed, "at least you look better than Dean."

"Hey!" Dean protested, and Charlie turned to him. He had taken a few nasal decongestants in the last couple of hours and had more or less lost the nasal twang.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

He chuckled weakly. "How would it have helped?"

"I…" she shook her head, "God, Dean, you guys such idiots!"

"We didn't ask for it, Charlie," Dean said to her quietly, and Sam could see the sadness reflect in his brother's eyes.

"Yeah, I know, I know…" Charlie swiped at her eye again. "I just…" she exhaled shakily. "So both of you are sick right now, huh?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "I caught the flu and Sam's on his nadir."

"You make it sound like he's on his period."

"Well, thankfully, they don't coincide," said Dean, shooting a glance at Sam, who gave his brother a disapproving look. "Imagine my plight if that happened."

Charlie smiled for a moment. "Well, then, I could stay for a day or two and help," she shrugged, "make sure you don't sneeze into Sam's soup."

"It's okay. I got it."

"Dean, I know how you think taking care of Sam is your job and all, but really, I wasn't joking when I said that Sam looked better than you. Take a breather."

Sam had been hoping that someone would come up and say this to his brother, and he was glad when Charlie took the step. After much persuasion, Dean agreed very reluctantly, to let Charlie help, and the trio sat at the library for a while, enjoying the lunch that Dean had made for them. Afterwards, Sam was tired again, and he retired for his siesta.

He slept an hour before Charlie came to wake him up. She told him that she had coaxed Dean to take a nap of his own, and Sam thanked her for it. His body felt sorer since the morning and the headache had risen a notch. Sam could also feel a slight churning in his gut, and he hoped he wasn't catching the flu like his brother, because that would really suck.

By evening, though, the stomach cramps were back, and he had to fight the urge to cough in front of Dean, who was scrutinising him as though he knew that something was wrong. The trio took a walk together later on, and they had some of Charlie's delicious spaghetti for dinner. After some more chit-chat in the war room, Sam was thankful when it was finally bedtime because he was tired — very tired, and his head and body were aching more than ever.

He went to bed and woke up what seemed moments later with something cool and damp pressed to his forehead. He was about to sit up, but a hand placed itself on his chest. "Just relax, Sam." It was Charlie.

He opened his eyes and she was sitting on the chair that Dean usually occupied. "Dean noticed that something was off," she said quietly. "He asked me to check on you."

Sam felt his stomach churn at that moment, and a cramp went down his gut, sending pain and nausea through his system. "I'm fine," he rasped.

"You have a slight fever," Charlie whispered. "Ninety-nine. If it rises, we're taking you to the hospital."

Sam pushed away the washcloth and sat up on the bed. Charlie moved back. "You okay?"

"Yeah…" he swallowed. Gosh, that hurt. "Just…" he cleared his throat, "I need to use the bathroom." He tried to say it as calmly as he could.

"Sure," said Charlie, making way for him, and Sam exited the room, shutting the bathroom door behind him as he entered. He was very nauseous, and his head was bursting. His stomach was cramping too, and he tiredly sank into his knees in front of the toilet, unable to prevent the frustrated tears from building in his eyes as he leaned over.

**~o~**

Dean wasn't sure what woke him up, but he didn't feel good. Well, physically, he was hell, but something was tingling in his gut, and it wasn't the flu. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to check on Sam. Sure, he had asked Charlie to do it, but he would never be able to rest until and unless he was confident that Sam was okay.

He stumbled out of Sam's room and into his own to see Charlie sitting alone on the chair. Sam was missing from his bed. "Where's Sam?"

"Washroom," said Charlie, fingering her hair. "How are you?"

"Is he okay?" Dean asked her, ignoring her question about his own wellbeing.

"Well, he's feverish," said Charlie, and Dean's heart missed a beat. "But you said it wasn't a big deal unless it was a hundred, so I didn't bother you. Why?"

Dean shook his head. "Did he say why he wanted to use the bathroom?"

"Why do people use bathrooms, Dean?" Charlie asked exasperatedly. And then her eyes widened. "Oh."

"How long has he been in there?"

"Not long."

Dean made his way to the bathroom and knocked at the door. "Sam?"

There was no reply. The elder brother put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. "Sam, you all right in there?"

Silence. Dean sighed. "Sam, I'm coming in. You'd better not have your pants down or—" _Oh, fuck it_, thought Dean, and just opened the door to see his brother sitting against the bathtub with his head in his hands.

"Sam, you okay there?" he asked softly, knowing the answer very well.

Sam shook his head. "Threw up again," he said in a muffled voice.

Dean let out another sigh. His flu was a bitch, but at least his stomach wasn't dicking with him. However, Sam seemed to have caught another version of it. Seriously, couldn't the kid catch a break? Slowly, he went up to his brother and sat beside him on the floor, against the bathtub. Sam looked up from his hands, his eyes red-rimmed, and filled with pain and frustration. Dean felt Sam's forehead. "You're warm."

"So are you."

Despite everything, Sam just _had_ to worry. "I'm fine," Dean paused, "d'you still feel sick?"

Sam swallowed. "Maybe."

Sam had an air of helplessness around him; an aura of defeat, and that was when Dean understood the true meaning of _nadir_. He realised how much he needed to be there for his brother — how much reassurance Sam required to get through this. When Sam's hopes reached their low point, when he wanted to fight, but was just too frustrated to do it any more, Dean needed to make sure he was around to walk his brother through it.

He cupped Sam's neck and gently eased the younger man's head onto his shoulder, pressing his own cheek onto Sam's hair. "You're going to be okay, Sammy."

Sam nodded against his shoulder, and Dean sighed, moving his hand to Sam's arm and rubbing up and down, listening to Sam sniffle quietly. "It's okay, it's okay," he murmured, and turned to look at his brother, who moved to burrow his forehead against the crook of Dean's neck. He could make out Sam's jaw clench and unclench as he nodded and sniffed. Charlie had come over to the door, and she glanced in, met eyes with Dean, and left immediately.

Sam's stomach seemed to have settled, but later on when Charlie brought the thermometer into the bathroom, his temperature had risen by two degrees. Trying to remain as calm as possible, Dean requested Charlie to get a blanket, helped Sam up and walked him out of the bathroom. Charlie came back and they both wrapped the younger Winchester in a couple of blankets and Dean looked into her eyes, realising that she could see his worry.

"We need to get Sam to the hospital."

* * *

**Response to guest reviewer:**

I am very sorry that this depicts something that you've experienced on a personal level. Sadly, I know what that can be like. Thank you for your kind words, though. I'm just writing what I would personally like to read in a story that includes TFW. :) And I'm glad you're happy with the medical details. As for Sam's prognosis, it's the average survival period without complications. Sometimes, patients present with one or more complications and the survival period tends to decrease. And even without complications, it depends on individual cases. Some people live beyond a year, some don't make it. :(


	9. Attacked

**A/N: **Hey, guys!

First of all, thanks for being so awesome! I'm so glad you guys are actually responding, that while I'm on a hiatus from all fanfiction activity (ie, no WIPs, but the occasional one-shot or drabble will come), I'm going to continue writing this fic — and only this one through the hiatus. I've been very, very busy these past few weeks, and will be busy until I finish my ob/gyn posting. On a good note, though, I saw a triplet delivery today. :)

I'm sorry it's getting later and later each time. This particular time period is pretty busy for me every year.

Thank you to BohemianMoose for the lovely beta work! :)

Oh, btw, this chapter disturbs the canon for my crossover, ha, but the crossover is different, so let's disregard that one. ;)

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**8. Attacked**

Ever since Charlie had read the 'Supernatural' series and had got to know more about Sam and Dean's lives, she had allowed herself to fall in love with their _broments _and had always hoped to see one of those while she was in their vicinity. Like the Winchester brothers, she too had been without parents for a good part of her life, but she didn't have a sibling to ride out the pain with. She had been really, truly alone. But Sam and Dean — she loved how they were always there for each other — how it was always the two of them against the world and no matter what happened, no matter how many mistakes either of them had made, they were back to being brothers at the end of the day. It really touched her.

At this moment, however, Charlie felt like she was intruding upon something private as Dean snatched a bucket from the bathroom and walked with Sam, holding an arm around his brother and following Charlie. They got outside the bunker and Dean tossed the keys of the Impala over to her. She caught them, and was astonished for a moment, knowing that Dean would have never let her drive unless he wasn't in his right mind. But then Sam let out a shiver and Dean tugged the blankets tighter around him and nodded at Charlie to open the door to the Impala; confirming that she hadn't got him wrong.

She obeyed and Sam got into the backseat, Dean climbing in beside him. Charlie turned on the ignition, watching in the rear-view mirror as Sam went back to burying his face into Dean's shoulder. Dean looked at his brother for a moment before resting a hand on the back of his head. Charlie realised then that she was actually witnessing some of the biggest broments ever, but she wished then that it hadn't been under such circumstances.

The brothers were quiet, except for Dean, who occasionally muttered directions to Charlie to get them to Webster County. He was still sick as well, he coughed and sniffed, and he was flushed with fever, but he had a mask on so as to not get Sam any sicker by any chance. They finally reached the hospital, and took Sam in through the ER. Dean had already called Sam's doctor from the car and thankfully, she happened to be on-call. When the nurse asked Dean what treatment Sam was on, Charlie was not surprised to hear drug names roll off the elder Winchester's tongue, professionally enough to teach a pharmacology class.

"Cisplatin and etoposide for his chemo and ondansetron and metoclopramide for the nausea and vomiting. He has extensive-stage SCLC and is on his nadir."

The doctor came after a while, checked Sam up, got him x-rayed, and told Dean that he had brought Sam along on time — that Sam could be cured effectively with high-dose antibiotics. Sam's throat swab was taken for culturing, just for confirmation, but the doctor seemed perfectly confident that Sam had an upper respiratory tract infection, and that it wasn't progressing to pneumonia yet. Sam was moved to a room and kept for observation after being given some food and the first dose of antibiotics.

Charlie and Dean both let out collective sighs of relief after that, and Dean slumped down onto a chair, just as Charlie remembered that he was quite ill as well. She sat down beside him and put a palm to his forehead, which he seemed too tired to swat away, and he felt warm. Charlie called the nurse, who had one of the doctors check Dean and prescribe him antibiotics of his own.

Sam slept soundly with the antibiotics and some other medicines providing symptomatic relief, and Dean snored on the chair beside him. Charlie stayed up, surviving on caffeine and watching over the brothers. She felt incredible sadness creep up inside her at watching the brothers the way they were — in a situation that made them so helpless. It was like slowly watching Sam slip away; Charlie had seen it in Dean's eyes, and she knew he thought the same. She had helped him a little with the research on bringing Sam back on his feet, but for some reason, it was very difficult to find a supernatural cure for cancer.

By afternoon the next day, Sam was a little better and Dr Greene said that he could be taken home. He had to take the anti-viral twice daily for ten days, and then a prophylactic dose every day for ten days after that. Dean had taken two doses of his own antibiotics by then, and was better too. They got Sam's discharge forms filled and while Sam was being wheeled out of his room, they almost bumped into some medical staff running into one of the rooms nearby, discussing something about someone finally being awake. Charlie smiled at that, because maybe someone had awoken from a coma; maybe they had given hope to their family — somebody was going to live.

She just hoped; as she got to the passenger seat on the front, watching Dean help Sam into the backseat before coming over to take the wheel, that the Winchesters would find that kind of hope soon too. She was lost in thoughts as they drove back. Dean was silent as well, his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, and Sam was gazing out of the window from his own seat. Finally, Charlie cleared her throat. "Want to watch a movie when we get back?"

Dean smiled. "Why not? We can rent something on our way back. What do you say, Sammy?"

"Sure," Sam rasped.

"Which one do you propose?" Dean asked, turning to Charlie.

"Harry Potter?" she suggested.

"I'd like that," Sam replied. "I missed the last one anyway."

"And you?" Charlie asked Dean.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "You heard the dork."

"Hey!" Sam protested.

Charlie chuckled. "Harry Potter it is. I have the movies back at my apartment, so we don't even have to rent them. We could make a quick stop and I could pick it up."

"That works," said Dean, and took the detour to Charlie's apartment. They stopped while Charlie grabbed the blu-ray disks and came back. She took all the movies, in case they ended up having a marathon, though Charlie knew that the boys were too sick to watch that much in one go without falling asleep. After that stop at Charlie's apartment, Dean started to drive back to the bunker.

He was in a lighter mood, making Harry Potter jokes to pull Sam's leg, while Sam protested or insulted his brother before finally falling asleep. They were making their way down a deserted road, almost back at the bunker now, when unexpectedly; a woman appeared on the middle of the lane, right in the way of the Impala.

"Hey, whoa!" Dean exclaimed, swerving the vehicle to avoid the woman, but the car suddenly came to a screeching halt and Dean's eyes widened, making Charlie realise that he hadn't stopped the car on his own. "What the hell?" he muttered, grabbing a gun from the glove compartment and getting out of the car. "Charlie, stay here."

"No way!" Charlie opened the glove compartment again and took out the other gun, scrambling to join Dean. He was standing outside, pointing his gun at the woman. She was smiling at him.

"Who are you?" Dean asked her, his finger on the trigger.

"Oh, my," she purred, smiling wider at the look on Dean's face, "I'm surprised you don't recognise me, Dean." Her eyes turned black, the smile still intact.

And Charlie saw Dean's eyes widen as realisation struck him. "Abaddon."

**~o~**

"What do you want?" Dean kept his gun pointed at Abaddon while she tilted her head at him, still smiling.

"You know," she said.

"You're not getting it," said Dean, narrowing his eyes. His hand shook slightly and he held the gun with both hands, but the demon noticed.

"My, my, not up to mark, are we?" she asked. "You know the gun won't work on me, Dean. What's wrong with you?" She waved her hand in one easy motion and Dean felt himself being flung away. He hit a tree on the side of the road, pain bursting on the back of his head as it made contact with the hard trunk. He slid down, his head spinning, and scrambled to get back on his feet as Charlie fumbled with Abaddon.

"Shit," Dean muttered to himself. What was he thinking, aiming a gun at her? And how would they get rid of her now?

That was when he remembered the angel sword that he'd tucked away in the boot after Castiel had given it to him. Would it help?

Charlie was thrown away in another moment and Dean rushed forward as Abaddon started to make her way to the car, where Sam was still sleeping, all his reflexes numbed because he was too tired and sick. The demon opened the door with a wave of her hand and the younger Winchester woke up with a start.

"Hey!" said Dean, aiming the gun at her and shooting anyway. It distracted her for a moment, but he was flung off his feet again, and he landed beside Charlie as Abaddon proceeded to attack Sam, who had got out of the Impala and was holding his hands up, defenceless, since Charlie had his gun.

Dean turned to the redhead, who was bleeding. "Come on," he said, giving her a hand and helping her to her feet. "I need to get something from the trunk. Distract her, okay?"

"Yeah," Charlie sounded breathless as she brushed her hair away from her face, picked up something from the ground, and ran towards Sam, who was still tentatively stumbling backwards as Abaddon walked towards him, smiling and enjoying herself.

"I liked my old meat, you know," Abaddon said, "you shouldn't have used the holy fire on it."

"Bite me," Sam responded, as Charlie joined him.

"Hey!" she said to Abaddon, and threw something at the demon — a pebble, Dean realised exasperatedly. Great. That would help a lot.

Abaddon turned to her. "Really, you think—?" There were two gunshots as Charlie shot at her uselessly, still walking backwards.

"Oh, now you're just annoying me," said Abaddon, and Dean managed to reach the Impala just as the demon tossed his brother and Charlie into the air.

"SAM!" Dean exclaimed, grabbing the angel sword from the trunk, hiding it in his jacket and charging towards Abaddon, who turned around and hurled him back at the Impala.

There was loud, sickening thud as Dean's back went crashing against the Impala, and he was hit near the shoulder blades, after which the back of his head hit the door handle, and his neck was suddenly wet with a trickle of blood. He pushed himself away from his car and tried to stand up, but couldn't. "Get me, bitch," he gasped from his place on the ground, hand going into the jacket and clutching the handle of the angel blade.

"I already got you," Abaddon replied coming over and crouching beside Dean, cupping his face. Her firm fingers crushed his cheeks. "Give me the key," she said.

"Sure," said Dean, and brought his hand out of the jacket — only to extract the angel sword with it and stab her right in the chest. She fell back with a thunderous scream and Dean crawled to her, getting to his knees and stabbing her again. And again.

Abaddon let out another scream and a trail of thick black smoke rushed out of her mouth, swirling about, circling him as he sat down and moved back, his head and back in agony. The smoke swirled skywards, and then it was gone as the woman whom Abaddon was possessing fell to the ground.

Dean stood there for a moment, panting, his head spinning and throbbing with pain, and then he headed towards the patch on the roadside where Charlie and Sam had been thrown. When he got there, he found both of them unconscious and entangled with each other. He kneeled beside them. "Hey. Sam? Charlie?"

Neither responded. Dean shook Charlie. "Come on, kiddo. Wake up." She was bleeding from her lip and her cheek, and Dean lifted her head slightly, running his hands through her scalp, but finding nothing. But that didn't mean she wasn't hurt. He turned to Sam, who had a stream of blood seeping out of a wound on his arm, which was stretched out above his head. He'd had the good sense of blocking his head from being injured when he was flung away.

Dean patted him on the arm. "Sam." The blood hadn't clotted yet, and Dean knew it was because of the nadir, but he was very worried. Would his brother need the hospital again?

"Sammy?" Dean checked Sam's scalp for injuries just as he had done with Charlie, but there was nothing. Sam only had one visible wound — the cut on his arm, which Dean realised, though not deep, was wide enough to need stitches.

"Sam?" he said again, hoping his brother would regain consciousness. Sam, however, didn't open his eyes and Dean fisted his shirt. "Hey, I can't carry both of you. Open your eyes, Sam, come on."

There was still no response from either.

Sighing, Dean slowly disentangled Charlie from his brother and his back protested against the movement, streams of pain shooting up his musculature, but he lifted her anyway, biting against his lip so he wouldn't pass out as he covered the distance between the trees and the Impala to deposit her in the backseat. He then headed back to Sam, whom he seriously couldn't carry. Not on this back anyway. He knelt back down and tried to awaken Sam again. He failed.

Dean sighed as he changed position to move and turn Sam to his stomach. He then put his arms below his younger brother's armpits and stood up, dragging Sam up to his feet as well. Sam grunted and fell forward, so his face was resting on Dean's shoulder.

"Sam?"

There was no reply.

"Yeah, and this you can do," Dean grumbled, as he wound an arm around Sam's waist and started to walk, trying to drag his brother along. He had hardly covered two steps, and Sam slumped powerlessly, his knees buckling and making Dean's task more difficult.

The elder Winchester shot a glance at the Impala, which seemed too far away from where he was standing. "What am I going to do with you, you big jerk?" Dean sighed exasperatedly at Sam. Sam obviously didn't respond.

Dean looked at the Impala again, licked his lips and took a quick decision. Ignoring all his pain and with a sudden rush of adrenaline, he pulled Sam closer to himself and put Sam's arm around his neck. Then he bent over, winding his own arm around the backs of Sam's knees and gripping his legs. In one go, he had hoisted the younger man off the ground and was sliding him into a full-fledged fireman's carry. His back objected and his head spun, but he couldn't see any other way in which this could be done. He started to trot towards the car — the faster he got rid of Sam's weight, the lesser were his chances of passing out on the way.

He almost dropped Sam on the ground when he reached the car and Charlie's eyes fluttered at the sound. She opened them groggily, just as Dean was busy trying to get Sam back onto the earth without causing him to fall over and smack his head somewhere.

"D-did you carry him?" Charlie asked in a faint, but astonished voice.

Dean was too out of it to reply. He only just managed to stuff all of Sam into the car, beside Charlie, before flopping to the ground, his vision going black for a few moments. Charlie's head peeked out above him.

"You okay?"

"A moment," Dean panted, shutting his eyes, his neck stiff from all the dried blood that had caked around it. He breathed evenly through his mouth, convincing himself not to pass out, and his mind to concentrate. He ran over everything that he had to do next — drive back to the bunker, check on Sam and clean him up, check for a concussion and if the bleeding doesn't stop, haul his ass back to the hospital.

Gosh, Dean so hated the situation they were in at the moment.

Either way, Dean's head finally stopped spinning and he ran a tired hand over his face. This was just great. Getting attacked by Abaddon on top of everything just had to be the icing on the cake. He wondered how permanently they'd managed to get rid of her. Evidently she was weak to everything that angels were. The information was certainly useful for the future. But how had Abaddon even found them? That was a very disturbing question.

Dean got back to the wheel and Charlie came up to ride shotgun anyway — perhaps she could sense Dean's worry, for her presence next to him was slightly comforting. Sam regained consciousness in a while, but Dean was still worried as his brother's speech seemed to be slightly slurred. Twice, he pulled over and checked Sam for a concussion, but there was none. Sam's wound did stop bleeding, though, and Dean could have cried in relief.

Finally as he saw the bunker come into view, Dean was comforted. It was time to get Sam cleaned up. He couldn't bear the thought of the wound on Sam's arm getting infected. That would just be the cherry on top. He pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the door, only to notice a figure sitting on the stairs in front of the door. And as he got out of the car, Dean's relief was fourfold — for the person waiting for him was none other than Castiel.

"Cas?" he opened the car door and walked up to the other man, his back and head hurting like crazy. Tiny pinpricks of black were clouding his vision, but he was just so happy to see the other man again — he needed to tell him…

He opened his mouth to say something, but everything got enclosed in a shroud of darkness as Dean slid out of his consciousness instead, as though the blackness had just been lurking about in the corner all this time, waiting for Dean to give in to the pain.

**~o~**

Sam watched, his vision blurred as Castiel's arms reached out to catch his falling brother. Charlie was on the passenger seat in the front. Shocked, she reached out to open the door on Sam's other side, as Castiel guided Dean to sit down on the backseat, who slumped forward, his head brushing against Castiel's belly. The former angel was about to push him back but he frowned, and Sam watched as he placed one hand on Dean's neck, pulling him forward, and ran gentle fingers through Dean's hair.

"He has cut himself," Castiel declared, when he was done. "Does he need the hospital?"

Sam's head pounded and he wished it would stop. Rubbing his eyes, he reached forward to the spot that Castiel was pointing at, placing a finger and feeling the cut. It wasn't deep. "No," he said, speech being a huge effort for him. Then he helped Castiel ease his brother backwards into the seat.

"What happened to you?" Castiel asked, noticing the wound on Sam's arm.

"Abazzon…" Sam was so tired. He couldn't even speak properly.

Castiel came over to Sam's side and opened the door. "You need to go to the hospital."

"We just came from there," replied Charlie's voice and Sam moved a lazy gaze to her when she came over to Castiel and held out her hand. "I'm Charlie."

Castiel took it and introduced himself before turning back to Sam. "He needs the hospital."

"J'st need cleaning up," Sam muttered.

"It seems to be deep," said Castiel, taking Sam's arm and inspecting the wound. "And you have bled a lot."

"Nazir," Sam said, "j'st wanna rest… Dean can clean up n' sew m'wound… will be okay."

"Dean is not conscious," Castiel insisted. He looked at Charlie. "Do you think he needs the hospital?"

"Dean said he'd keep a check until evening," the redhead shrugged. "The cut is not bleeding anymore, but Sam does need stitches, according to him."

Castiel licked his lips. "Hospital," he decided, "you drive," he said to Charlie, and was about to make his way into the car, to sit with the brothers, when there was a groan from Dean.

"Zean?" Sam said, reaching out to his elder brother and shaking him by his shoulder, as Charlie and Castiel watched. "Hey…"

"Mmmm." Dean took a sharp breath and opened bleary eyes. "Sammy?"

"Yeah," said Sam, "m'okay, Zean. You?"

"I'm — I'm fine…" The elder Winchester took another deep breath and turned to his brother sluggishly. "You're still slurring."

"M' tired," Sam admitted to him, each word rolling off his tongue heavily. His head throbbed again and he just wanted to sleep.

Dean licked his lower lip. "I'll check your wound… then you can sleep." Gosh, he sounded so tired himself. Sam wanted to ask him to take rest — he wanted to tell Dean that he'd sew up the wound himself, and Dean needn't stress, but somehow, it was very difficult to talk, and before Sam knew it, Dean was already trying to stand up.

The elder Winchester began to get out of the car, stumbling slightly as he got his grip. He started to make his way to the other side — Sam's side, and Castiel went forward to help him, but he shrugged off the angel.

"I'm all right. Let's get the Sasquatch fixed, and we'll catch up, okay?" Dean's voice was faint and Sam didn't like it, but Dean was Dean. He'd never admit to needing help. The elder brother then looked at Charlie. "You doing good there, Charlie?"

"I'm fine," she said, "I'll help you."

"I'm good," Dean said tiredly, making himself visible to Sam. "C'n you walk?"

"Think so."

"Good… 'm too tired to carry you again."

Sam couldn't remember being carried, but a blush crept up his cheeks at Dean's words and he pushed himself up, out of the car. His knees almost gave away, but he held on, hoping Dean didn't see how unsteady he was. "Lez go insize."

Dean stared at him suspiciously, locked the car and the party headed to the bunker, each step tiring Sam so much, he had an urge to sit down right where he was and nod off. Yet, determined not to let anyone help him any more, he trailed along, and when they reached his room, he slumped onto the bed.

In a few seconds, he felt Dean's rough palm on his forehead. There was a sigh. "This is gonna hurt just a bit, Sam," the elder Winchester said, his voice still fatigued. Sam then heard Castiel's voice.

"Dean, I got you and Sam some Gatorade."

"Thanks, Cas," said Dean, and Sam could hear him gulping down the liquid. His voice stronger now, he spoke to Sam. "Here, drink this."

Sam lifted his head a little and opened his mouth to accept the drink and instantly felt a little better too. Then Dean spoke again. "Ready?"

Sam nodded, eyes still shut, and firm hands grasped his arm, after which he felt damp cotton rub against the cut. He hissed, and the hand grasping him tightened reassuringly. Suddenly, Sam was fighting consciousness again. As he opened his eyes, he could see pinpricks of black, and everything was blurred.

"Let go," said Dean, noticing Sam's unfocussed eyes. "You'll be better when you wake up."

"Hmm." Sam felt Dean's palm on his arm, Castiel's weight on the bed and his hip against his knee, and he knew that Charlie was crouched in front of his bed. The last thing he felt after that was her hand on his shoulder, before he let the darkness take over.

**~o~**

Dean knew of the exact moment that Sam had slipped back into unconsciousness. He could recognise those unfocussed, tired eyes anywhere and the moment his brother had opened them, Dean had realised that he was on the verge of passing out again. He encouraged it, though, for he knew that it would mask most of Sam's pain. Dean's back and head still hurt, but he felt that it was trivial as compared to what Sam was going through, and as he diligently cleaned the cut on Sam's arm, he felt a pang of hatred for Abaddon. That bitch. Attacking Dean was okay, but why did she have to touch Sam?

Well, thankfully, Sam's wound had already formed a plug of clot — but Dean was sewing it up anyway, because otherwise it would take a lot of time to scab over and it would leave a worse scar than the stitches.

He dabbed more peroxide on Sam's wound and when he was happy enough with the cleaning, he reached for the box of sterile gloves and pulled on two of them on before tearing open the suture pack. The brothers didn't normally wear gloves while patching up wounds, but one of them didn't normally have cancer either.

Dean heard Charlie draw in a sharp breath when he found the edge of Sam's wound and plunged in the curved needle, pulling out the other end with forceps and starting to knot it. He did a few knots, cut the suture, and plunged in the needle again. For a while, it went in a rhythm.

_Plunge. Draw. Knot. Cut._

Dean's head was spinning again, and everything hurt, but he went steadily with Charlie and Castiel staring intently at his handiwork. Finally, when he was done, he closed the wound with come more antiseptic-soaked cotton and gauze, and went ahead to check if Sam had any other injuries. He was relieved to find that he had righted the single wound, and he and Charlie fixed themselves after that.

Once he had instructed Castiel on taping the bandage to the back of his head, Dean excused himself from Charlie and the former angel, asking them to go ahead and rest themselves, before going to his temporary room and almost passing out on the bed. He couldn't bear to sleep on his back, so he slept on his stomach instead, but as he lost it to his fatigue, he didn't hear the footsteps of someone entering his room. He didn't feel gentle fingers on his slightly warm forehead — fingers that longed to heal with a touch and make it all better. And he didn't notice Castiel get up from his side and leave the room, sadness on his face.

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews? They make me so happy! :D

PS: I've actually fireman-lifted someone. It's hard.


	10. Just a Headache

**A/N: **This was quicker wasn't it? Yay! :D I am really pleased with myself :p.

Thank you for all the wonderful response on this! You guys are really spurring me on! :)

Still only working on this fic and some random one-shots. I have posted a new anthology, and you'll eventually find all my one-shots there. They're Sam-centric hurt/comfort fics from various prompts over at LJ, and then some ideas I have, and it's open for prompts from readers as well. It's got one story right now, also from a prompt at LJ, and the collection is called 'Family Forever'. Go have a look. :)

Right. End of self-pimpage.

Many thanks to my wonderful, wonderful beta BohemianMoose for being a ninja with this one. :)

This particular chapter contains spoilers for Harry Potter — DH Part 2. I hope all you guys have watched the movie (it did come out more than two years ago), but it will make sense even if you haven't. The spoiler isn't so much for the book, though, just the movie and scene from there.

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**9. Just a Headache**

"Okay, so here goes!"

Charlie inserted the Blu-ray disk into the player and settled back as Dean pushed a few buttons on the remote control. Beside him, Sam was curled in a blanket, face peeking out pallidly from the warm material. Dean gave him occasional concerned glances, but Sam pretended not to notice those.

He had woken up after the incident with Abaddon, sore all over from being flung, and only to find he didn't remember anything that happened between him getting attacked. He felt like he was waking up after a really long time, but he was assured that it had only been a couple of hours. Dean and Charlie were wounded too, but they had tended to themselves. Dean had popped in a few Tylenol for his back, and begrudgingly promised Sam that he'd get help if the pain didn't go away. He had, however, asked Sam to talk the moment his eyes had opened and bewildered, Sam had obliged. Later, Dean had explained how Sam was slurring during the brief period that he'd woken up, which had caused his brother to think that he might've had a concussion.

Sam ate, took another dose of the anti-viral, and then Charlie had waved her Harry Potter movie at them, which Sam had agreed to watch immediately. Dean and Castiel had agreed too, and few minutes later, they were sitting on the couch, three sets of eyes at the screen and one pair darting towards Sam every thirty seconds.

The movie went by uneventfully — Sam and Charlie seemed to be the only ones interested enough to gasp at the right places, and Sam could swear there were parts where Charlie was practically whimpering. Soon, they were at the part where Harry was about to go to the Forbidden Forest in order to let Voldemort kill him. Sam watched as the character descended the stairs of the war-struck castle and reached his best friends. They spoke, and Hermione seemed to figure out what Harry wanted to do.

"I'll go with you," she said, her eyes filling with tears, and Sam heard Dean take a sharp breath beside him. He turned and he grinned at his brother.

"Getting too involved in the movie, are we?"

Dean looked back, but he didn't retaliate. Sam didn't think much of it until they finished the movie and sat in the library for a while. He had opened his book on spells as Dean, Charlie and Castiel opened other books to look for ways to cure Sam.

Castiel hadn't breathed a word about his expedition, which made Sam realise that none of the angels were ready to help him. This meant that if no one found a cure for him, he'd probably die. He licked his lips. It felt so… final. His heart fluttered. They had run out of one more option, and he, Sam, was a step closer to dying. Dean had figured it out too.

That was when Sam understood his brother's reaction to the dialogue from the movie. _No_, he thought, horrified at the implications. Just… no. He wouldn't let Dean do that. And he was about to let Dean know right now.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey, Charlie, you know what Hermione told Harry when he was going to get himself killed?"

She looked up and smiled. "Yeah. Adorable, wasn't it?"

"It wasn't in the book," Sam shrugged, fingering one of the frail pages on the leather-bound tome in his hands, "they shouldn't have added it. Hermione wouldn't do anything so stupid."

"It wasn't stupid," Dean replied to this in a low voice, as he looked up from his own text. Their eyes met, and Sam realised that Dean had understood his context. The older man continued to talk. "Harry was like a brother to Hermione. She didn't want him to be alone."

"If Harry wouldn't have come back, she and Ron would've had to finish off Voldemort," Sam pointed out, "so she was better off staying back and fighting. Plus, she had a future with Ron. She had a lot to live for."

"There were plenty others to finish off Baldie," said Dean. "It wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't stayed back."

"Wow, you guys are getting analytical," Charlie commented, but Sam interrupted her.

"It would have mattered, Dean. It would have made a difference to Ron. He would have lost his best friend _and _the love of his life if Hermione had gone along."

"So I guess she had a better reason to stay back. There isn't always a Ron in everyone's life, you know. It isn't all the same."

"What isn't the same?" Charlie asked the brothers. "What are you two talking about?"

Sam ignored her again, anger rising up in him. Why wouldn't Dean understand?

"Damn right, it isn't the same, Dean," Sam snapped at his brother irately, "because that's fiction. Harry isn't always going to come back. Sometimes, Hermione has to realise that there's only so much she can do to keep her friend. She can't be so selfish — she can't stop fighting the war just like that."

"Yeah? So after being selfless all this time, she doesn't get to be selfish this once?"

"Not for such a reason."

"Fuck you, Sam," said Dean, standing up from his chair. "You can't just sit there like that, and expect it all to be okay, all right? You have no say in this. You don't get to decide for others!" Dean's jaw clenched and Sam thought he saw a slight, wet glimmer in his brother's green eyes before the elder Winchester took his book and stormed out of the library.

There was silence. Charlie and Castiel were both looking at Sam, and the spot that had been occupied by Dean, a moment ago. Castiel shut his book and made to get up. "Should I talk to him?"

Sam shook his head. "No, Cas, you stay. I should probably—"

"Is he serious?" Charlie whispered, before Sam could complete his sentence.

"Yeah," Sam replied to her quietly. He licked his lips. "Yeah."

"Sam…" her eyes widened. "He can't…!"

"I know," Sam replied. "I'll talk to him." He shut his own book and stood up. "I should probably do it now."

"Should I come along?"

"No, no, thanks—" Sam said to Charlie. "I think I should talk to him alone."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Sam was leaving the library, when he heard Castiel's voice. "Sam?"

He turned around. "Yeah, Cas?"

"Were you referring to me when you were talking about the redheaded boy from the movie?"

**~o~**

"Dean?"

There was a loud thump on Dean's door but he stayed where he was, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn't want to talk this through with Sam. He didn't need to. Sam had no say in Dean's decisions — not when Dean had so recently promised Sam that he wouldn't push him to do anything — that Sam wouldn't be forced into more treatments or pain just because Dean wanted so desperately for him to live. So if Dean wasn't allowed to persuade Sam to live, Sam wasn't allowed to do it either.

The knocks came again. "Dean! Open the door, dammit!"

"Why don't you just go away, Sam?" Dean called out crossly.

"We need to talk—"

"No, we don't."

The knocks stopped. "Please."

"No, Sam."

There were footsteps, and Dean heard Sam sigh. "Okay," he said, his voice still determined, "I'm not letting this go, so you can decide when you want to talk about it."

"Try me," Dean muttered, and that was when he heard Castiel's voice.

"Should I do it?"

"That's probably not a good idea, Cas."

There was a knock anyway. "Dean." It was Castiel this time.

"God, why don't you two go match your period dates and leave me alone, huh?"

"He seems to be angry," Castiel was telling Sam.

"Go, and I won't say it again," Dean replied, frowning at the door.

"We should leave," Sam said from outside. "I'll talk to him later."

"Yes."

Dean sat where he was, listening to the footsteps recede. He then sank into his pillows, letting out deep breaths and eventually falling asleep without realising it.

**~o~**

Dean never came out of his room, and later when Sam knocked, he could hear Dean's muffled snores, so he let his elder brother be. God knew — Dean needed his rest. He had been injured enough in that fight with Abaddon, aside from fighting a nasty flu of his own.

Soon, it was time to go to bed, and Dean still hadn't come out. Before he retired to his own room, Sam knocked again at Dean's door — loud knocks this time, and his brother answered the door groggily. "If you're going to—"

Sam interrupted him by holding up the bowl of soup that Charlie had made. "You need to take your medicine."

"What are you, now, my caretaker?"

"Just your brother."

Dean's lips curled into a smile at that and he took the bowl from Sam's hands. "Go, sleep."

"Yeah." Sam's headache from earlier was back, but he needed to know that Dean was taking his medicines too.

"Go, bitch."

"Fuck off."

He headed to the next door, to his room — or Dean's room — or whatever, it didn't matter, and he lay down on the bed. The headache had changed from a pounding type of pain to aching pressure behind his eyes. Sam threw an arm across his forehead, hoping that the slight weight and pressure of it would help ease the pain. It helped and he dozed off. Until it got worse.

He got up in the early hours of morning with one side of his head pounding thoroughly in sync with his heartbeat — or so it seemed. Anyway, it didn't matter if it had a rhythm or not. He couldn't have cared less if it was an erratic pounding because it was just too painful.

He sat up, the movement feeling only worse, but the weak tendrils of light creeping in from the hallway through the small gap were just too bright and he needed to shut the light off. He felt sudden nausea rise in him and he swallowed it down, relived when it disappeared, because the last thing he needed was to puke. There'd be plenty of time for that during his second chemo cycle in a few days.

He tried to lie down again but his head hurt too badly. He grit his teeth against it, his breath coming in sharp gasps. At one point, it escalated and his hands fisted the bedspread while his socked toes curled underneath the blankets. God, what was happening? He started to sweat in pain and he tried to breathe again but that didn't help.

Another sharp bout of pain shot across the existing agony — pressure over the pounding — as though something was pressing against his meninges and his skull. He let out an involuntary yelp, bringing a palm to his mouth immediately after that, hoping that he hadn't been too loud. He hissed, his ears ringing as he felt terror run through him. What the hell was happening? Was he dying? If he was, he hoped it would be over soon.

"Sammy?"

Someone opened his door and Sam hissed again as it hit against the wall, the sound shooting more pain through his head. His body was arched and rigid from agony, and he hadn't realised that until he felt Dean's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, take it easy. Relax. Tell me what's happening." The sudden burst of light flooded through Sam's clenched eyelids and everything lost meaning again. Dean had opened the door to let all the hallway light in, not knowing that it was a bad idea.

"L-Light…" Sam grit his teeth, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and he felt Dean move again, so the light was gone. He felt better after that, though the pain didn't decrease. His teeth ground against each other, locked and clenched, and his body was taut — rigid. He could barely move from the torture in his head alone.

"Sam, talk to me." Dean's hand was squeezing his forearm. "Where does it hurt?"

"Head… eyes… everywhere…" A tear slid out of each of Sam's eyes from the sheer pain, and he felt Dean's hand squeeze him tighter.

"Hey, what can I do?" Another tear fell out and Dean patted Sam's forearm. "I'm right here. It's okay. Just tell me."

"'M n-n-not crying, j-jerk," Sam managed, before hissing again. He didn't know what he needed. He wasn't sure what was to be done. "T-Think… migraine." There was no other explanation for it.

"A migraine? Did you have a vision?"

"No… actual… m-migraine." Because the headaches from visions weren't really migraines. They were very bad headaches, yes, but not real migraines. Sam knew what a genuine migraine was. Jess used to get them. He knew all the classical symptoms. And this was a migraine. But… how?

"I thought those were genetic," said Dean, mimicking Sam's thoughts. "And don't they start earlier in life or something?"

Sam just groaned. "I don't know… oh G-God…" Something was amiss. Even apart from the whole headache thing, Sam didn't feel good.

"Okay… I don't… would Tylenol help?"

"Advil."

"You can't take that, man. No aspirin or ibuprofen, remember?"

Sam gritted his teeth another time, frustrated at that. He was definitely dying. He wasn't sure he could survive this. He turned to his brother with pain-filled eyes, his breath still coming out sharp and erratic. Dean bit his lip. "Will a head massage help?"

"N-No…" Jess had never let him touch her head during her migraines. Now he knew why. He practically shuddered at the thought of anyone laying a finger on his head. It hurt _that _much.

"Tell me something, Sam — help me here, man… please."

"Just need to sleep."

"But you can't?"

Sam shook his head, biting his lips through more pain as another tear fell out of his eye. Dean rubbed his forearm briefly. Sam could practically hear his brother thinking. He let out another gasp, feeling Dean rub quicker, in a more fevered pace, and then some of the pain left, but it was still bad.

Dean's hand suddenly left Sam's forearm and the younger man felt his brother stand up. "I'll be right back." He left the room as quietly as he could and Sam tried to sleep, but he couldn't.

It was ten minutes before Dean came back, and when he did, he patted Sam's shoulder. "I need you to open your eyes and sit up for a bit."

Sam obeyed, finally opening his eyes, though it was far too bright in the room. Dean had a small pill in his hand along with a glass of water.

"What…?"

"Alprazolam," Dean answered. "I called the doctor. It won't fuck with any of your chemo stuff, and we still had some in the medicine kit."

Sam remembered the pills. They were from the days of Dean having disappeared off to Purgatory. He'd had trouble sleeping and had grudgingly visited a doctor under Amelia's insistence. The pills were apparently mild and non-addictive, which was why the doctor had prescribed them without much hesitation. And they'd helped Sam sleep. Dean had questioned their presence once, but Sam hadn't really replied.

"Are they still good?" he asked his brother.

"Yeah, I checked."

"Thanks."

He took the pill and popped it in, gulping down all the water with it. Then he lay back down on his bed as Dean went about shutting every sound and light source that was bound to hurt Sam. The headache was still there, and it was still bad, but Sam felt a calming sensation come down on him like a blanket as he yawned and fell asleep.

**~o~**

"Dean, we need to talk."

Dean had been standing at the library, staring at a heavy book and wondering, simultaneously about Sam's migraine, when he heard Castiel speak. He looked up and gestured for Castiel to come over.

"I'm fine, Cas," he said, knowing what the former angel wanted to talk about.

"Sam thinks otherwise. Charlie and I agree."

"Cas…"

"Sam won't die, Dean. And neither will you."

Dean sighed. "Thanks, but—"

"You are a pessimistic son of a bitch."

Dean almost dropped the book he was holding, as he looked up at the former angel. _"What?"_

"You heard me," Castiel said, and he looked almost angry as he said it. "And you are selfish, Dean. Very selfish."

"Okay, Cas—"

"You have no right to throw away your life like that!" Castiel folded his arms, his eyes narrowing at the other man. "People — _angels _have worked hard for you! I brought you back from perdition, fought my way through, along with the garrison, for forty years to do so and this is how you're repaying me!"

Dean wanted to remind Castiel that he'd died once even after that, but it didn't seem like the best moment to do so. "Cas, listen—"

"_No!"_

"Wow, you're hormonal."

"Stop it!" the other man snapped. "I don't care what happens to me after that, but if you take the step you're willing to take—"

"—you'll do _what_, Cas?" It was Dean's turn to interrupt him. "Kill me?"

Castiel's eyes widened. He swallowed, sharp breaths coming out of him. Then the pools of blue sank, below Dean's eye level, down to the ground. "Dean. Please."

Dean didn't know what to say. Castiel raised his eyes again, pleadingly. "Even if the worst were to happen, that isn't what Sam would want."

"Sam doesn't want a lot of things—"

"For _me_."

Dean suddenly realised who 'Ron' was supposed to be from his and Sam's argument earlier that say. But Castiel was anything but the love of Dean's life. The elder Winchester sighed. "Cas…"

"Dean. I'm begging you." Castiel's eyes were bright, and he tilted his head. "I'm begging you."

Dean took a deep breath. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? Right now, I'm not going to let Sam die. Are you?"

"So you don't promise."

"No." It was Dean's turn to look down now. "I'm sorry." He licked his lips. "But Sammy isn't going anywhere either. Not on my watch."

"I know that."

"So why are we having this discussion?" Dean asked Castiel.

Castiel looked away, a tongue wetting his pale, dry lips. "I'm in the danger of losing one friend already. I don't want to lose both."

Dean was silent. He opened his mouth, then shut it and pressed his lips into a line. Then he spoke again in a voice that was stronger than he felt. "It's going to be okay, Cas."

Castiel nodded. "If you say so."

"I mean it."

Just then there were footsteps from down the hallway and Dean's head automatically turned towards the war room as he caught Sam make his way towards them. "Hey," said the younger Winchester.

"Hey," Dean replied to him, smiling. "How're you feelin'?"

"Better," Sam shrugged, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, "headache's almost gone. You?"

"I'm peachy as always," Dean shrugged. "You hungry?"

"Kinda. Yeah."

"Good. Charlie went into the kitchen about half-an-hour ago and refused to let me inside, so I'm guessing food should be ready soon."

"Oh. Sure."

Dean lifted the book and seated himself on one of the chairs. Castiel followed him after he'd retrieved his own book. After a few moments, Sam sat down too, without a book, though from the corner of his eyes Dean could make out that his younger brother wanted to talk about something. _Oh God, not again, _he thought.

"Dean—"

"—Sam." It was firm and final, and Dean indicated to Sam that they didn't need to talk about it.

"No, listen."

"I've heard all I wanted to hear."

Sam licked his lips. "It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?"

The younger brother sighed. "I was just thinking—"

"—and that's always a bad thing, of course…"

"Shut up and let me talk."

Dean gazed at him exasperatedly. "What?"

"I just — why don't you go out tonight?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Okay. _Why?_"

"Hit a bar. Meet some girls. Take Cas with you."

The elder brother shook his head. There was something off about this. "Again, Sam. _Why?_"

Sam looked at him earnestly, his long fingers interlacing with each other as he rested his hands on the table. "Ever since the chemo began, you really haven't had time to yourself. And I want you to have that."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam stood up, crossing his arms. "Yeah. I just — the second cycle is beginning in a few days."

"And?"

"And you'll be stuck taking care of me again, which is basically what you've done ever since the entire thing began."

Dean made a sour face at his brother. "Don't be an ass, Sam."

"Yeah, right. _I'm _an ass for wanting you to have some fun."

The other sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"I told you."

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever, man."

"So you'll go?"

He bit his lip. "Fine. But… you're okay, right?" His gut had suddenly begun to tingle. Something was wrong with Sam. He had never spoken like this before. Not even when he'd planned to jump into Lucifer's cage.

"Yeah, of course," said Sam, smiling at him. The smile looked odd to Dean. "I'm as good as I can get."

Dean nodded slowly. He'd weasel the truth out of Sam before he would have to hit the bar. "Okay."

**~o~**

Charlie left soon after lunch, though reluctantly. She had to report back to work and she couldn't miss another day, but she didn't leave before making the Winchesters promise that they'd stay in touch about Sam's condition. Dean promised her that he would keep her updated and after squeezing both the brothers in tight hugs, and a goodbye handshake with Castiel, Charlie left.

Sam, Dean and Castiel then headed back to the bunker and Sam was reminded of the times during the Apocalypse when it would just be the three of them, sitting up, plotting, planning, and thinking of ways to try and stop all the shit that was happening. They were doing the same now. Except this time, it was very different from the Apocalypse.

Truth be told, Sam far preferred the Apocalypse. But then again, at least he and Dean didn't have trust issues now. It had all come at a cost, but they were brothers again.

Dean let Sam go back to sleep after that. The younger brother didn't have much of a headache anymore, but he was tired anyway. The flu wasn't completely gone — he was still sniffling and sneezing here and there, and was slightly warm, though nothing above a hundred degrees. Dean was better — like he'd said, but he didn't have a busted immune system, so the first few doses of anti-virals were enough to get him all better.

Apart from feeling tired, though, Sam felt something else. The same irrational panic from the migraine that morning had lodged in his stomach when he'd woken up. He didn't know what it was, but he felt all _wrong_. And that was why he had asked Dean to hit a bar and enjoy in the evening, because he had a feeling something was going to happen very soon, and that wasn't going to be good. He just didn't know what it was. He knew that Dean had smelled a rat, even if not immediately, and he hoped that Dean's instincts wouldn't keep him from enjoying an evening, because his brother truly deserved that.

Sam had a disturbed sleep once he retired to bed for the afternoon. Dean had told him that he couldn't have more than an hour — yet again, but something was coming. Something ominous. He opened his eyes in just forty-five minutes, unable to sleep anymore, but also due to a wave of nausea making its way through his body.

He sat up in his bed and swallowed against the nausea. It went away in a minute, but not before cold sweat had broken all over him. His head suddenly began to spin and the nausea was back, and then gone again. His vision blurred slightly. Sam blinked. This didn't feel good in the least. Something was terribly wrong.

"Dean?" he called out. Except, it didn't sound like 'Dean' at all. It didn't sound like…_anything_.

"D-Dean?" he called out again, but all that came out was something that sounded like _'jaan'._

"Dean!" Sam called out, louder, and his brother's name still didn't come out right. Waves of panic travelled through his fibres, hitting against him again and again. Why wasn't he able to speak properly? What was going on with him?

"DEAN! HELP!"

It just sounded like he was yelling gibberish, but he was yelling… he was…

"SAM?"

He heard his brother's voice, the sound transmitted thoroughly even through the ringing in his ears, and then, everything was blissfully black.

**~o~**

At first, Dean wasn't sure about the sound he heard from Sam's room as he entered the hallway from the war room. He was certain, though, that Sam was fast asleep, and these days, his brother rarely woke up halfway through his naps.

There was another noise, and Dean frowned. He didn't know if Sam needed to be checked on, because his brother would holler if he needed Dean and it didn't sound like he was calling out to him — just as though he was sleep-talking. His younger brother was never one to do that, but sickness made everyone do weird things…

… And that was when Dean heard Sam yell. Properly. It wasn't Dean's name, it wasn't anyone's name, but somehow, he knew. _Something was wrong._

"SAM!" He called out and rushed to his old room, throwing open the door, only to be met by a horrible sight.

Sam lay on the bed, body thrown in a slight arch, going up and down frantically, beating against the mattress while his arms were splayed on either side, doing the same. His eyes had rolled upwards and his breath was coming in erratic gasps.

Sam was having a seizure.

* * *

**A/N**: Whoops. Another cliffie.

So, what do you think? Reviews would be amazing! :D

* * *

**Guest review responses**

**Alyshia**: Yay! So glad you liked the HP reference! I tend to draw so many lines between Sam and Harry, I couldn't help it this time. :p Aww, and thank you for those kind, kind words! I'm sure there are fics out there that balance out Sam and Destiel, though. You've just gotta look for them ;). And the Destiel - haha, you'll have to wait and watch! That's still building. Very slowly, though. :p Thank you so, so much! You are very kind. :) And thank you very much for the review because my muse beckons when response is there, and I love that all you guys are interested. :) So you guys are keeping the story going, really! :D I should update again within the next week! :) Thank youuuu! *hearts*

**Jesse:** Meep! I am very, very happy that you're enjoying it. Thanks for your review! :D


	11. It's Complicated

**A/N: **Another timely update! Aren't you proud of me? Thank you to BohemianMoose for the wonderful beta job on this! :)

I got a couple of guest reviews last chapter. Thank you! Both of you can find your responses at the end of the previous chapter. :) And the rest of you, as always, thank you for your support! I love you guys!

This chapter is kinda emotional, but I hope the sadness doesn't come across as sappy.

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**10. It's Complicated**

"I need you to calm down, Mr Wilson. Tell me what happened."

"Where is Dr. Greene?" Dean asked the nurse impatiently as he watched Sam's pale form on the bed in the ER, covered in blankets. Castiel was beside him, his face mirroring the panic in Dean's mind. They had rushed Sam to the hospital as soon as the seizure had stopped, Dean driving through sun-kissed roads at breakneck speed. Castiel, in the meantime, had sat at the back with Sam, letting the younger, unconscious Winchester lean against him, staying there in case Sam needed anything.

"She'll be here in a minute," the nurse — Edith, said calmly as Dean fidgeted with his phone. "Until then, please tell me what happened."

"He – he had a seizure," said Dean, placing the phone in his pocket. He put his hands to his head, gripping his short-cropped hair, his eyes widening. "He had a fucking _seizure_, and I—"

"Dean." Castiel's hand was on his shoulder, and he felt a light squeeze.

Dean licked his lips. "Is he all right?"

"He will be taken care of," the nurse assured him. "How long did the seizure last?"

"I-I don't know… about t-twenty seconds after I found him."

"Did he regain consciousness after that?"

"Several times," replied Castiel. "I was in the backseat with him. He was conscious for very brief periods."

"And how was his mental state?"

"Confused."

"Make way," said a familiar voice, and Dean turned to see Dr. Greene manoeuvre her path through the bustling nurses and head straight to Sam's cubicle. He wasn't, however, even remotely comforted at her sight — there was only a foreboding sensation making its way through his body.

"He had a seizure?" the doctor asked Dean the moment she had reached Sam's cubicle. She didn't look very happy.

"Y–Yeah…" Dean sighed, "what's wrong with him, doc?"

"I'll find out and let you know. Where did that cut on his arm come from?"

"We – we got into a small accident the other day when we were returning home from the hospital," replied Dean, "I know my bit of first aid, so I cleaned him up at home."

Dr Greene nodded and opened Sam's gauze. "The wound is clean and the stitches look good. So apart from the seizure, any other symptoms? Odd ones?

"He couldn't speak properly," Dean said, worry seeping through him. "Called out for help, I think, but couldn't get my name out."

"Was it gibberish, or did he just make sounds without being able to say anything at all? Or did he speak random words with no connection?"

"Gibberish," Dean replied. "And – and he had a headache — a migraine. Was it supposed to be there?"

"Yes, you called me about that, I remember," said the doctor, narrowing her eyes at Sam. "Migraines can present anywhere between puberty and until the person is fifty. But I doubt this was a real migraine. You said the time you got him here for his flu that though you didn't have any nausea or vomiting, he experienced an episode, right?"

"Yeah." Dean was bewildered. "Has this got something to do with the flu?"

"I don't think so." Dr Greene shot intelligent eyes at Dean and then turned to the nurse. "Get me the percussion hammer."

The other woman walked away, only to be back with a hammer-like instrument. The doctor took it from him and started to strike it firmly against Sam's biceps tendon. Dean could see a muscle on Sam's forearm jerk in response. The doctor moved to Sam's triceps and then tested several other reflexes before handing back the hammer and turning to Dean.

"His reflexes are normal, but I won't lie to you. All the symptoms you've described to me indicate neurological involvement, and I need to get a head scan to determine what's wrong. I'll check him up and stay in touch." She hesitated and gave Dean a sympathetic pat on his shoulder before writing down the test on Sam's file and walking away.

**~o~**

Warm… cold… _weird_.

Sam's brain flashed him a list of sensations and feelings as he came to. He swallowed thickly. "Dean…?"

"Sam, we need you to stay still," said a disembodied voice and Sam smacked his lips, his eyes still shut. He was on a hard table of some sort, and cool, air-conditioned breeze blew past his exposed legs… _where were his jeans_? He had no idea where he was. Something was letting out a low hum.

"Dean?" he whispered again, turning to his side, only to feel something restrain his face — as though it was in a cage. His eyes opened just a little.

"Sam, please calm down," the voice said again, and he realised it was Dr Greene. Sam realised then that he was in the hospital. How did he get there?

The doctor spoke again. "I'll explain everything to you once I'm done scanning you, and you can meet Dean."

"Hmm," he replied and shut his eyes again, understanding that he was getting an MRI scan. The doctor had switched off the mike and there was silence, except for the sounds from the machine, and the buzzing of the air-conditioner. He started to feel nauseous and a slight pain seared through his head.

Why was he here? He didn't understand what had happened. Hadn't he just gone off to take an afternoon nap? Why was he suddenly getting his head scanned? It didn't seem to fit. Unless… something happened in between that he couldn't remember.

He waited for the scan to get over, the nausea still boiling at the bottom of his stomach. He didn't feel well — his body hurt like hell, and there was an unsettling feeling in his gut, even apart from the nausea, like something wasn't quite right. His head and eyes were hurting slightly. Finally, the MRI machine stopped humming and the table under him moved slowly, sliding him out with it. He opened his eyes to see the nurse lean over him as she undid the cage-thing from around his face. She transferred him to a room after that and Sam lay there in his bed, waiting for someone to explain the situation.

He shut his eyes for a moment and opened it, only to see Dr Greene at the door.

"How do you feel?" she asked, coming over to him.

"Not good," he rasped. "Where's my brother?"

"I'll call him in a while. Are you having trouble getting any of your speech out?"

"No. Why?" Sam paused. "What happened to me?"

She sighed. "Your brother brought you here because you had a seizure. And before that, I think you felt it coming on and tried to call out to him, but you couldn't speak. Do you remember this?"

"No."

"It's not uncommon," she said.

"What went wrong?"

The doctor licked her lips. "I did your scan and I've ordered for the results to reach a neurologist."

"But… you have an idea…?"

She was about to speak, when Sam heard a voice at the door. "Sammy?"

**~o~**

Castiel sat next to Dean in the waiting room as the elder Winchester held a cup of coffee in his hands without having touched it in the last five minutes. Sam had been wheeled off to the scan a while ago and there was still no word from the doctor.

Dean sighed, putting the cup away and then burying his face in his hands. Castiel had an urge to put his hand on the other man's shoulder again, to offer comfort, but he could never be too sure as to what Dean would consider a breach of personal space. Dean sighed and finally lifted his head while turning to Castiel.

"You think he'll be fine?"

He looked tired and defeated, and Castiel felt sadness creep through him. "Of course, Dean," he replied.

The other man shook his head. "You know, I'm trying to deal with it — I really am — but… I can't, Cas… it's just getting worse every day…"

"Sam will be back on his feet soon. We will find a cure." Castiel hoped that his words would come true. But he needed to comfort Dean right now.

Dean swallowed. "If – if this is something else… I can't—"

"Mr Wilson?"

Castiel didn't get to hear what Dean couldn't do, but he suspected he already knew as both their heads turned to the nurse.

"Sam is awake in a room upstairs," she said, "you can go see him now."

**~o~**

The doctor looked at the happiness on Sam's face on hearing his brother's voice and turned to the door to follow Sam's line of sight. Sam himself was relieved — very relieved, and he smiled at Dean who stood outside with Castiel.

He diverted his eyes to Dr Greene. "Uh, doc—"

"I'll be back later," she assured him, "as such, it would be wrong to give you a diagnosis without being absolutely sure."

"Yeah, okay," said Sam, his heart racing at the thought. He watched as the doctor left the room, nodding at Dean and Castiel as she did so. The two men then came in and Dean took the chair next to Sam's bed. He looked like hell. His hair was dishevelled — probably from running his hands through it repeatedly, and worry lines etched his face.

"I'm okay," Sam lied to him.

"You gave us quite a scare, man," Dean confessed. "You remember anything?"

"No."

"I mean, you were talking — and I don't even know—" Dean sighed, "what did the doctor say anyway?"

"Nothing yet," Sam replied. "She's still waiting for the neurologist's opinion on my MRI scan."

"I just hope everything's okay."

"Me too." Nothing seemed okay, though, but Sam didn't tell Dean that. None of the symptoms he had experienced could mean anything good. Not if they needed a head scan and a neurologist.

"Cas is here," said Dean rather obviously, jerking his thumb towards the former angel. "Helped me haul your unconscious ass in here. Man, you know what a pain you are when you're passed out?"

Sam turned his head to Castiel. "Hey, Cas. Thanks for helping."

"It's no problem," replied the former angel, "hope you're feeling better."

"Yeah, I'm good. Just sleepy."

"Then sleep," Dean replied, "we're right here."

There was silence. No one wanted to talk about what had happened — what the possibilities were. Sam rested his head against his pillow and shut his eyes for a minute. Dean started to talk in a low voice again, trying to lull Sam to sleep, but Sam never heard half of it. In fact, Dean sounded as though he were talking from the other end of a tunnel. It sounded… _funky_.

The tunnel.

_The Impala passed a long tunnel, bars of overhead lights rushing by, and finally an exit came into view. Sam was always happy to see the exits of tunnels because he didn't like them very much; it meant danger and distrust… and it was like being confined in the dark. As the car came out from the other end, he blinked against the sudden light and turned to his brother. They were both in the backseat with their father driving. Sam was fifteen and Dean was nineteen, and though Dean could drive, he was tired and had opted to doze off for a while beside Sam, who was in a bad mood. The hunt hadn't exactly been smooth._

"_Man, that was some hunt," Sam said, "I can't believe we're always so close to dying."_

"_It was normal, I guess," Dean shrugged._

"_Normal? In what way? You could have_**_died_**_, Dean!"_

"_Quit your whining, Sammy, I'm fine. I didn't die."_

_There was silence for a while, as Sam sulked, turning to the window and watching the sunlight glint off it, and Dean huffed at him. "What is it?"_

"_Why do we have to keep switching schools?"_

"_You_**_know_**_why."_

"_You should be in college."_

"_Yeah, but stop feeling so bad. I don't wanna be there, okay?"_

_Sam made a face and turned back to the window. Dean seemed irate. "Stop it, Sam."_

_Stop it, Sam…_

_Sam._

_Sam?_

"Sammy?"

Someone was calling out to him. He realised he should respond. He was so sleepy…

"Sam." A hand shook him. "Sam, what's wrong?"

He could hear it clearly. Dean's voice. And then it all came back to him. The hospital. Dean and Castiel. John was dead. He'd died long ago. Now it was Sam who was dying and if he didn't do anything about it, Dean would, too.

He opened his eyes. Dean was leaning over him, and he looked scared. Sam blinked.

"Cas has gone to get the doctor," Dean said, his face still concerned, "you don't seem right, man, I'm worried."

"Why, what—?" He couldn't continue, as bile rose up his throat. Sam shot up on his bed, bending over, and Dean took one look at his face before jumping back just on time as Sam got sick, still managing to spatter Dean.

"S-Sorry," he muttered, his vision swimming.

"Sam?!" Dean didn't seem concerned at his ruined clothing.

Sam hardly heard that as he collapsed forward and strong arms caught him, manoeuvring him to lie back down, holding him sideways. "It's okay… relax… the doctor's coming…"

Sam, however, shivered and fell back into unconsciousness, the last thing he heard being the screeching of the machines he was attached to.

**~o~**

Sam was seizing. Again.

Everything was a blur to Dean as he held his brother in recovery position for a while — seconds, minutes, hours… he didn't know… and then the doctor was there with Castiel, and she hurried to Sam.

"Get me four milligrams of lorazepam!" she called out to the medical staff that had rushed in after her, and then she got a loaded syringe in her hands after which she pushed the needle into the IV catheter, injecting slowly…

"_Dean?"_

All was quiet. It had been a while since Sam had been injected with the anticonvulsant and Dean stood at the large window, wondering what was going wrong, wondering how he would get through this. He had changed into new clothes — a pair of scratchy, uncomfortably loose scrubs provided very kindly by the hospital staff. He felt absolutely crappy.

"Dean…"

Castiel's gravelly voice cut through his thoughts. The former angel hadn't spoken in a while, and Dean had barely registered the hand on his shoulder. He turned to the other man, unbidden tears coming rushing in to fill his eyes as he blinked vigorously.

Castiel looked sympathetic at this and his hand slid down Dean's arm, squeezing his forearm. "It's going to be fine."

Dean shook his head, letting out a watery chuckle. "You suck at lying, you know."

"I'm sorry."

He looked up at the angel's face, and then turned away. The fingers gripping his forearm let it loose and suddenly, he craved the touch. But the hand was back, this time on his chest, on his heart.

"I put you together," Castiel whispered, "I brought you to life. I am responsible for you. I won't let anything happen to either you or Sam."

Dean took Castiel's wrist and gently eased his hand away from his chest. He let out a small sniff of laughter. "Jeez, Cas, that's gay even for you."

"You tell Sam all the time that you'll protect him."

"Yeah, because it's my job. Dad handed him to me the day Mom died, and I've been responsible for Sam ever since."

"Yes and my father allotted the same responsibility to me, Dean. The garrison was ordered to fight through Hell and when I got to you first, I was given your charge. I don't plan to forget that."

The angel looked at him earnestly. "I will do anything, _anything_ to get you and Sam out of this. We will get back to research immediately, and I will sit night and day to find a cure if I have to, Dean, but like you, I won't let Sam die."

Dean nodded and sniffed. "Thanks, Cas."

"You thank me too much."

There were footsteps outside Sam's room. "Mr Wilson?" said an uncertain voice.

Dean turned around, so see Cecelia at the doorway. Her eyes swivelled over to the scene in front of her. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something… but Sam's results are here. The doctor would like to talk to you in her office."

Dean looked down, realising he was still holding Castiel's wrist and let go of it immediately. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm coming." Dean started to walk, but Castiel remained where he was. The elder Winchester turned to the former angel.

"Cas?"

Castiel stayed silent for a moment, and then seemed to understand that Dean was asking him to come along. "Yes, Dean, I will accompany you," he said, and he walked forward as they followed the nurse.

**~o~**

"_Your brother and I need you."_

_Sam stood in the living room of the old, dilapidated house, facing his father and trying to stop the lump in his throat from overwhelming him. "I'm just going to college, Dad."_

"_And what are we supposed to do? We can't hunt one man down, Sammy, you know that."_

"_You hunted alone before I was old enough."_

"_It's not the same anymore."_

_Sam licked his lips. "Look, Dad, I'll come back during breaks — I can help with research!"_

"_We don't need any of your favours. As for the breaks — if you go, stay gone."_

_He felt tears fill his eyes as his vision blurred. "Are you serious? You aren't even proud that I got into Stanford? A full ride? And I wasn't doing any favours, Dad, I was offering to help because I_**_care_**_."_

"_There are far more important things that I was expecting you to participate in., Things more important than college."_

"_Like hunt the thing that killed Mom?" Sam asked angrily. This was going to end badly. He just knew it. "Because yeah, we're so much closer to it than we were eighteen years ago!"_

"_Don't talk to me like that."_

"_I will talk however the hell I want," Sam spat. "I'm not your soldier. I'm not Dean."_

_His father's eyes were like hot coals. "Don't even compare yourself to Dean. He's nothing like you."_

"_Thank God," Sam huffed, knowing Dean was listening, knowing he'd feel terrible about saying this later on. He was just too angry and upset at the moment. How could his father be this way?_

"_You think you're better than your brother, do you?" John asked Sam in a stony voice._

"_No," said Sam simply, "I'm just different." He hesitated. "Please. I need this."_

_John was silent for a while, but Sam didn't like the look on his face. "Let me get this right," his father said, "college is more important to you than us, is it? Or forget me, even — more important to you than_**_Dean_**_?" He paused. "But I think I know the answer to that already. You think you're better than us all."_

"_N-No…" The tear fell out and Sam scrambled to wipe it off. "Listen t-to me, Dad."_

"_No," said John, "_**_you_**_listen to me, Sam." He paused, and it was the loudest silence in Sam's life. Then his father said in a low, menacing voice, "If you walk out that door today," he said, pointing at said door, "don't even think of coming back. You get me?"_

_Another tear fell out of Sam's eye as his heart broke. Why did it have to be like this? A third tear followed, and soon, Sam was shaking, standing there, the whole room silent except for his quiet sobs. He was looking down at his feet as tears fell thick and fast, but then, after a while, he dared to look up, one last time. "Fine. I'll be out of your hair first thing."_

_His father clenched his fist and for a moment and Sam thought his father would punch him, but John only narrowed his eyes. "You ungrateful son of a bitch," he said, before walking over to the door and leaving the house, slamming it behind him to reflect his true anger. Sam picked up one of the empty beer bottles from the table and threw it at his father's direction, but the older man had already left._

_The youngest Winchester left for his shared room with Dean, where his elder brother was sitting on his bed, Sam's Stanford acceptance letter in his hand. He handed it to Sam wordlessly, having heard everything that their father had said._

"_Fat load of support you are," said Sam crossly, wiping his face._

"_Yeah, and what was I supposed to do?" Dean asked him, "Get stuck in the middle in one of your fights again?"_

"_You know, Dean," said Sam, looking up at his brother. "You're my brother — you said to me when we were kids, that it's you and me against the world. You seem to have forgotten about that."_

"_Dad's not just the rest of the world, Sam," said Dean, "he's family. And both of you are important to me, okay? Don't expect me to choose. Please."_

"_I'm not asking you to," said Sam, "but you could have said something. Dad's being unreasonable!"_

"_I think it's high time you and Dad learned to sort out your own fights," Dean huffed. "Plus, I seem to remember my name coming up. You think I'm dad's soldier, huh?" He sounded hurt as he said it._

_Sam didn't know how to reply to that. Instead, he walked over to the rickety wardrobe that the brothers shared and began to pull out his clothes._

"_Wait," Dean said to him disbelievingly. "You're leaving?"_

"_You heard Dad," Sam replied. "If I want to go to college, I have to leave."_

"_Yeah, I heard that, Sam," said Dean, coming over to him. "And he wasn't serious. I thought you knew better than that."_

"_He sounded dead serious to me." Sam said, tears threatening to fall again. "He said it twice, even."_

"_He's just angry. He'll come around."_

"_Well then, he can call me and tell me that. I'll be happy to visit during holidays and breaks," Sam said flatly, swallowing against his emotions._

"_Sammy…"_

_Sam had gathered his limited possessions in his arms and he shut the wardrobe before depositing them on his bed and fishing for his duffel bag. He swiped the back of his palm over his eyes and started to fill the bag, tucking all his things neatly even in his hurry. Finally, he zipped it up and swung it over his shoulder. "You coming?" he asked Dean._

_His elder brother widened his eyes. "What?"_

"_To California," Sam replied. "We could work a few small jobs before the start of term and use the money to rent an apartment."_

"_What about Dad?"_

"_I told you," Sam replied, "if he's ready to take back his words—"_

"_Come on, Sam, don't do this. Let Dad come. We can talk this out. All three of us."_

"_There's nothing more to talk about, Dean. As for Dad, if he cares, he'll make an effort."_

"_He's our_**_dad_**_."_

_Sam sighed. "Are you coming or not? I think you should apply for a course too — you're brilliant, Dean. You deserve better than this."_

"_Better than this?" Dean asked him incredulously. "I save lives, for fuck's sake._**_We_**_save lives, Sam. I'm better off like this, than being in some prissy lecture hall with a few douche-y kids."_

_Sam licked his lips, a stray tear falling out of his eye. "You're not coming with me."_

_Dean hesitated. "I just want to help Dad out." He blinked a few times himself, turning away. "Sammy, don't leave, man. Not like this."_

_Sam sniffed and shook his head. "I guess you've made your choice, then."_

"_Sammy, please." There weren't many times that Dean let his tears fall, but he did this time._

Something was wrong with Dean. His face was melting, filling with black.

"_Sam, wake up, man. This is not cool."_

He wanted to tell Dean that he wasn't asleep, but he couldn't. Where was he? Everything was just black.

"_Sam, don't worry, okay?"_ There was a light hand on the back of his palm, not holding it or squeezing it, but just there — feather light, gentle and calloused. _"Nothing is going to happen to you,"_ Dean promised in a voice that brought a lump to Sam's throat. He took a deep breath and took in the smell of antiseptics. There was a bleeping sound in his ear and someone was being paged in the background, being called for an emergency…

Sam was in the hospital. Why was he here?

He opened his eyes slowly to see white all around. White… it was so bright. What was wrong with him? He could remember an MRI scan, the doctor, and then Dean coming to talk to him… and everything was unclear after that. What was happening to him?

He turned his head, his eyes wet, to notice something on the expanse of his pillow at eye level. A single hair lay there innocently — dark and long. And then he spotted another. And another. His hair. From the chemo, of course. He had forgotten about that.

And then he saw Dean, who had his face buried in the single hand that wasn't covering Sam's palm. His breaths seemed to come in short gasps. Almost as if…

"Hey," Sam croaked.

Dean looked up, the erratic gasping stopping at once as his Adam's apple bobbed and he discreetly wiped his face, trying to smile. The smile didn't quite reach his red-rimmed eyes, which were tearing up again.

"Don't…" Sam pleaded, swallowing as his own eyes burned in sympathy. "'M okay."

Dean chuckled, and then reached for his eyes again, wiping them with the heel of his hand. "Yeah — yeah."

"Where's Cas?"

"Dinner. He was so hungry, his stomach was making noises. The son of a bitch stuck around till I kicked him out."

Sam smiled weakly. "Did the doctor talk to you?"

Dean nodded, but didn't speak.

"What did she say? What is it?"

Dean pressed his lips together and averted his eyes from Sam. And from the expression on his face, Sam finally lost his own battle as a tear came rushing out of the corner of his eye down his temple, and fell onto the clean pillow.

**~o~**

The bar was not very crowded. There were no noisy college kids, no violently drunk people — just the sounds from the pool table in the other room, and mild chatter mingling with the music all around. Dean sat on a stool, watching as the curvy bartender filled up two mugs of beer for him and Castiel. She smiled as she placed them at the table.

_Dr Greene was at her desk with her fingers interlaced and her expression grim. Dean didn't like the look on her face._

"_Dean," she nodded at the Winchester, and she looked at Castiel. "You were here on the first day of Sam's chemotherapy, weren't you?"_

"_This is Cas," Dean replied, introducing the formal angel to the doctor, "he's part of the family, so you can talk to me in front of him."_

"So what brings you here?"

Dean broke out of his reverie when he realised that the bartender was talking to him.

"My brother wanted me and him out of the house," he replied, jerking his thumb at Castiel. "Apparently he needs some time on his own."

"Sounds like you have a bossy brother."

"Well, yeah, he can be a bitch," Dean sighed.

"I hope it runs in the family," she purred, biting her lip, "the bossiness, I mean."

Dean smiled and shook his head. "Thanks… but no thanks."

"_Have a seat," Dr Greene said tiredly to Dean and Castiel. She pointed at two florally cushioned chairs before her table._

"_What is it?" Dean asked, his shoulders tensing as he and Castiel obeyed her. The chair suddenly felt uncomfortable. Dean wanted to stand up. Maybe he could storm out at the bad news then (yes, he knew it was bad news), and it would all be over. Sam would be okay._

"_Sam…" Dr Greene hesitated, "I took an MRI of his brain… and…" she bit her lip, "it doesn't look good."_

The bartender looked a little taken aback at Dean's rejection. "Okay, whatever," she said sourly, handing him the mugs. "Enjoy your drink."

"Thanks."

"_What is it?" Dean pressed the doctor, his heart fluttering. This was bad… really bad._

"_The – the…" she paused, "I'm sorry, Dean, there's no easy way to say this. The cancer has spread to Sam's brain."_

_There was silence. Ominous silence._

Dean walked back to his table, where Castiel was sitting, and he noticed that the former angel's eyes had been following him back. He handed the tankard to the other man as he sat down. There was silence between them as both took simultaneous sips of their beer. The quiet had been everything since the last couple of days, probably since it had started at the doctor's office. They had come home with a schedule for radiation therapy, along with the chemo, and Sam's hair had started to fall out — as if everything else weren't enough.

Dean looked into Castiel's eyes as he set his mug down, and then turned his gaze downwards. He was still in shock. He felt so helpless — like a trapped animal…

He felt a hand land on his. He hadn't realised that his palm had been on the table, facing upwards. Not until then. Castiel didn't intertwine fingers this time, though, having taken Dean's advice the last time to distinguish between friendly and romantic hand-holding, Dean only felt a light squeeze.

"_How much time?" he asked the doctor, his voice a whisper._

He couldn't think further. He didn't want to remind himself of anything. He couldn't bear to do that. He concentrated on Castiel's hand — how it wasn't rough and calloused like his and Sam's — Castiel was yet to become like that, yet to get scars…

He wondered why he was thinking of another dude's hands. _Weird_.

His mind went back to that moment with the doctor. No. No…

"_How much time?"_

_The doctor bit her lip. "Four months."_

Dean let a single tear fall out of his eye, feeling Castiel hold on to him as he did so, and knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.

**|| End of Part One ||**

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**A/N:** So, that's one part of the story. Don't worry, this isn't the end! I have about 22-23 chapters on my plot plan so this could go upto 25 chapters. The story is divided into four parts, but only stylistically. I'm not posting this as four different fics lol.

So, tell me, how's the twist? This was quite an emotional chapter! Phew!

Reviews? Pretty please?

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**Guest review response**

**Charlotte:** Hehe, thank you so much! It's been a while since I've written such pure, unadulterated angst. Glad you're liking it. :)


	12. Looking into the Past

**A/N: **I'm back with another update! :D Thank you for the amazing response, guys! I love you all! :)

So now that hellatus is over (yay!) this is where my story goes legitimately AU. And I LOVED the season premiere. Beautiful and heartbreaking and amazing! Anyway, I won't say anything else for anyone who hasn't been able to catch up yet. :)

Thank you, **BohemianMoose**, for being a wonderful beta!

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**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**11. Looking into the Past**

Sam sat on his bed, rested against a few pillows with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arm around them. In his other hand he held a printed schedule — his treatment schedule. It wasn't just chemotherapy now; it was chemo-radiation — a few hours of chemotherapy followed by sessions of radiation. He was too far gone for just chemotherapy.

He licked his lips as he read the radiation schedule. They were twice a day, Monday to Friday for the next three weeks, all incorporated into the plan of his second chemo cycle. The doctor had said they could do it in the third cycle as well, but that it would be preferable to finish it off as soon as possible, and Sam could hear the words she'd swallowed after saying that. He knew they wanted to do it sooner because they weren't sure if he'd be around much longer, and they wanted to prolong his stay.

Basically, he was going to die very soon.

He moistened his lips for a second time and pushed the thought away as he read the booklet he'd been provided about the radiation therapy. It was curative, not prophylactic, like they'd discussed before Sam's treatment had begun. It was the badass motherfucker stuff.

He'd had two seizures in total: one in the bunker and one after he'd been admitted into the hospital. After that, no similar incidents had occurred and he was thankful about it, but then he now had a steady dose of prophylactic anticonvulsants added to his prescription. The anticonvulsant, phenytoin, was making Sam lose his sleep. It got him nervous and jittery and though he was tired as hell most of the time, it took him a long time to fall asleep. He dreaded each dose of the medicine.

The words, 'general tonic-clonic seizures' now adorned his file, along with everything else. He'd gone full grand mal both the times he'd seized, and his case file was accumulating papers — complications upon complications piling on and flashing in neon red colour, four letters:

_DEAD._

The doctor had explained to Sam, in the hospital, soon after he'd woken up that his cancer had metastasised to his brain. Basically, Sam had more tumours in him now. The single fucker in his lungs that was taking away his life wasn't enough it seemed, for his brain MRI showed white circles here and there, surrounded by dark grey areas — which the doctor said, was oedema. The headache had been due to one of the tumours touching his meninges, which meant they'd grown fast too — which wasn't a good thing.

The doctor also pointed to some areas which were causing him his specific problems and words like _Broca's area_, _optic chiasma _and _temporal lobe _came up. At one point, Sam would listen to these things carefully, but he didn't care now. He couldn't take any more medical terms for the life of him. He just knew that that was where the speech issues and the vision blurring and photophobia came from.

As of now, Sam had woken up with a headache almost daily since the detection of the mets (really, did the discovery just make it worse?) and the nausea had been back since the day he'd caught the flu (not that the flu was gone — he was still sniffling and slightly congested, and it was taking very long to completely go away). Sam knew he was in for a bad time with the nausea once the chemotherapy began, with the radiation to boot. The doctor had said that the radiation could exacerbate some of his neurological symptoms because of the brain swelling it was bound to cause.

There was more medication to reduce the brain swelling — dexamethasone, a steroid would be prescribed to Sam once he was off his course of anti-virals. Until then, he'd just have to power through it all. The other symptoms, like the speech and the vision thing, however, would reduce, and they could even perform surgery on those later on to excise some of the ones that caused more trouble, if Sam wanted that.

Sam wasn't sure what he wanted. Dean had promised that they could stop if it got too bad, and it had got too bad, but Sam didn't want to stop yet. He had come close to giving up several times, in a fit of rage or irritation, but no, he didn't want to die. He ran his hand through his hair at this point and a strand came off. He sighed. This had been happening ever since his last trip to the hospital. Every morning he'd wake up to the unwelcome sight of a few of his hairs scattered over the white pillows, or sometimes, a few of them would have fallen off and landed on his shoulders. Other times, they just came off when he touched his hair. It was mild for now — a couple of strands at a time, but the doctor said it would become worse soon, especially after they began with radiation.

There was a knock on his door, and Sam knew it was Dean. "I'm up," he called out. He hadn't told Dean yet that he had trouble falling asleep. The last thing he needed was for Dean to sing him a lullaby over all of this, and based on the way that Dean was determined to help Sam through his disease, the latter was a hundred percent sure that his elder brother would physically sing him to sleep if that was what it took.

"Good," said Dean, replying to Sam, "breakfast is ready."

It was the first day of the second chemotherapy cycle and Sam felt dread as he put away the schedule and made his bed before heading to the war room. Dean had made bacon and eggs for him and Castiel, but for Sam, there was a plate of fruits so that the nausea wouldn't start earlier than necessary. The conversation at the table was stilted and quiet. Sam picked at his food, hesitant to eat, but he ate anyway, because it would be less painful if he actually had something in his stomach to throw up later on. Castiel didn't eat much either — but Dean yelled at him and then he literally inhaled his food before washing his plate and heading to his room. Sam hoped, for everyone's sake, that Castiel was all right. He wasn't sure what was going wrong there at all.

The drive to the hospital was full of stunted conversation too, and Dean looked as nervous as Sam while he clutched the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles were white. They had to wait at the oncology ward, and it was quite gruelling. Dean pretended to read a magazine about cars while he shook his leg nervously and Sam just sat back, his arms crossed, brushing off the occasional strand of hair that fell onto his shoulder. He wondered if he should shave them all off, and then decided to do it once it became worse. Finally, it was Sam's turn to go in.

The IV port was back and Sam reclined against his bed as Dr Greene came to check on him before the nurse started the hydration. The session began and Dean left for lunch in between, by which time Sam was already getting nauseous, but it was under control. He dozed off a while later and was woken up gently by the nurse, only to discover the session was done. His stomach sloshed in anticipation and he felt lightheaded. He also felt a headache coming on. He swallowed, resolving to hold on until the end of the radiation session at least, as he was wheeled out of chemo and into the waiting room for the radiotherapy.

The planning for the radiation sessions had already taken place the last time he was at the hospital, and Sam raised his hand to feel the spot above his ear where the nurse had marked a dot with a felt-tip pen. It was a guide for the permanent radiation tattoo which would later be placed with a needle above each ear, which would in turn be a guide to see that Sam was positioned properly on the table when he went to receive the radiation. Dean had tried to make a few tattoo jokes when the doctor had told them about it but really, nothing was funny anymore. Not even to Dean himself. And then, after a while of waiting, it was Sam's turn to go for radiation.

The elder Winchester was not happy that he wasn't allowed in with Sam — at this point, he probably didn't care about unnecessary radiation, but Sam wanted him to care because the reversal of survival instincts in Dean at Sam's deteriorating health was downright scary. More than his own death, Sam was worried about the fact that his brother would just leave everything and lie down to die the day Sam kicked the bucket. Of course, Dean and Castiel were trying hard — really hard, and Dean slept two hours per night now and Castiel didn't even sleep that much. At least Dean took another hour off in the afternoons while Sam slept but Castiel seemed awake all the time.

Sam knew that the angel was worried for him as well, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that something really shitty was about to happen. He asked Dean to talk to Castiel, knowing the latter would only open up to the elder Winchester, but Dean had reported back, saying he'd had no luck. Castiel helped, but was mostly just stoic and deep in thought most of the day. It didn't look good.

Dean and Castiel had started spending all their time in the library. Each morning, Sam would see coffee mugs and empty Red Bull cans littering the polished table. It reminded him of exam time at Stanford, except, that was far less stressful. Truth be told, he was beginning to get very worried for Dean too.

The whole radiation therapy took all of twenty minutes and Sam lay down, bored and uncomfortable on the table, the tattoo marks stinging slightly. He had to stay still and couldn't shift about much, so he was relieved when it was over. Dean was waiting outside for him and he rose from his chair at the sight of Sam, patted him once on the back, and wordlessly helped him back to the Impala.

It was a half-hour drive back to the bunker, but Dean was going slow, knowing how uncomfortable Sam was. The younger Winchester rested his head against the passenger window with Dean's jacket acting as a pillow to his head. He had an arm draped over his eyes to keep away the sunlight and he kept swallowing convulsively. Dean reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "Almost there, brother."

Sam turned to the other man, sighing and moving his head slightly so the dizziness wouldn't aggravate. "How are _you_?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at that. "Why are we discussing _my _health here?"

"You're not sleeping, Dean," said Sam worriedly.

"Yeah, we'll get you better, and then I'll sleep for as long as you're satisfied, okay?"

"No, listen," Sam swallowed again. "You've gotta stop killing yourself trying to help me. Cas too."

"I spoke to Cas. Dude's a stubborn bastard. And I'm fine. Quit your worrying and take rest."

"No," Sam replied. "We need to talk about this, all right?"

"Talk about what?"

"You going suicidal like this, man, this is not okay."

"Yeah, well, we've already spoken about it. And I'm not suicidal," Dean snapped, "I'm just trying to keep you alive."

"Yes, I appreciate what you're doing, Dean, but we didn't talk. You wouldn't let me—"

"Exactly. It's not your place. Besides, you're not dying, so just shut up and go the fuck to sleep."

Sam wet his lips. "Dean… it's four months."

"Give or take."

"Most probably _take_."

Dean nodded and pressed his lips together. "We've talked about this, Sam, and I can't bear to have this discussion every ten days, okay? Cut me some slack, man."

"I just… I need you to know…" Sam swallowed, but his stomach chose that exact minute to rebel. "Dean…" he breathed urgently.

His brother threw him a look, realising what was wrong at once and the Impala came to a screeching halt on the side of the road. Sam pushed open the door roughly, bending over and trying not to let the frustration take over as nausea overwhelmed him. He remained that way for the next few minutes, his stomach emptying itself messily, his throat hurting as he retched for probably the millionth time since everything had begun. Dean was there as always, his hand on Sam's back as the younger Winchester clutched at the door of the Impala desperately to keep from falling over. Finally, when he was done, Dan pulled him back and handed him the box of tissues and a bottle of water.

"Take it easy, okay?" Dean said as Sam rinsed. "We can talk later."

Sam leaned back on the seat once he was clean and Dean started to drive slowly again. He took a deep breath. He didn't want to postpone this talk. It had to be done.

"Dean—"

"—Sam."

The tactic almost always worked on the younger brother — Dean calling out his name with finality, signalling that further prodding was unwelcome but hell if Sam cared. Dean would never let him say it if he didn't force this conversation out.

"Dean, I need you to know—" he began, but Dean cut him off.

"—I know everything, Sam. Just take rest, will you? We have to go back in the evening, and I really don't want to see you so sick, man."

"No," Sam breathed, the nausea and emotion working against his throat, "you should know… if…" his breath hitched, "if you're not able to… it's not your fault."

Dean had let Sam complete his sentence and the younger brother saw regret in his sibling's eyes for that. Dean refused to reply to that for the next few minutes, until they were at the bunker, and he had parked the car at the garage. And Sam thought he had won the discussion because Dean hadn't said anything, but he realised he was wrong when a hand placed itself on his shoulder, stopping him from getting out, and he found himself looking at Dean's angry face.

**~o~**

"If you're not able to… it's not your fault."

The words echoed about in Dean's mind as he steered his beloved car to the bunker. Sam looked on the verge of another episode of upchucking and Dean didn't push him, not wanting to get him to talk forcefully while he was so ill. But as they reached the bunker, Sam's face had regained some colour, meaning he was feeling a little better. Dean parked the Impala and bit his cheek, Sam's words going around in his mind again.

No, Sam was lying. He knew _nothing_. He thought, he could have his four months and leave and it would be _so _easy.

He put his hand on Sam's shoulder, anger taking over his senses, and saw his younger brother's bewildered expression when he turned around.

"Let's be crystal clear about this, Sam. If you don't survive, it_is_my fault."

"Hey, come on—"

"No, _you _listen to me," said Dean. "_I _was supposed to do the trials. _I _was supposed to get this goddamned cancer. I was supposed to be getting chemo and radiation and suffering the side-effects of it, not you."

"I remember taking up the trials at my own will," shrugged Sam. "I remember telling you I wanted to do it and survive."

"And I remember you not caring when I told you that you could die," said Dean. "So you knew all along, didn't you? You were just misleading me."

"How could I have realised…?"

"I don't know, but you well aware that the trials would kill you, weren't you?" growled Dean, and Sam flinched at that. "Weren't you?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

The younger Winchester looked away for a moment, and Dean took his collar. "Look at me and answer."

The latter shook his head first, and then nodded. Dean released his brother and punched the Impala's steering wheel. "Dammit, Sam!"

"You wouldn't let me continue with the trials if I told you!"

"So you were just ready to die? Is that what it had to come to? I know I screwed up big, okay? I told you. I've been screwing up for years. But man, Sammy…" he couldn't continue.

Sam shook his head again, blinked, and then swallowed before replying. "I just…" he paused, "I just…" he looked down and didn't complete the sentence. He swallowed again, and opened the door of the Impala. "I don't feel so good." He started to get up, but Dean caught hold of his forearm.

"We're having this conversation, Sam. You wanted it so badly, didn't you? Now tell me. You were so caught up on not letting me down that you were ready to die? You couldn't just _tell _me about it?"

Sam struggled under his grip. "Dean, please. I really don't feel good. Let me go."

"Once you talk to me."

Sam reached over and pried Dean's hand away, his own fingers clammy and shaky, and Dean realised he was serious, and let go at once as the younger Winchester bolted out of the garage and to the war room. Dean locked up the car and made his own way back, thinking of what his brother had said all those days ago at the church.

"_You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I've let you down. I can't do that again…"_

So it all came to that. Sam had taken up and continued with the trials, despite knowing what he would be facing, just so Dean wouldn't be let down. And if Sam was dying now, it was Dean who had brought him to this — who had pulled the trigger.

His stomach clenched and he grit his teeth as he entered the war room. He was greeted by the sounds of Sam retching again and was a little surprised to find his brother doubled over the sink just outside the hallway to the bedrooms, apparently not having been able to make it to the bathroom. He pocketed the car keys, removed his jacket and went over; putting a hand on Sam's back again, rubbing slowly.

"Sam," he said quietly, as the other man continued to heave, one hand holding his hair back and the other gripping the side of the sink. His face was way down with his forehead rested against the faucet. Dean sighed and continued to rub his back, trying to comfort his brother through the episode.

"You know, whatever I said… whatever crap I gave you? I never meant it that way, man," Dean said, resuming their conversation. "I was pissed and I didn't think about what I was saying. I should have realised. And now you're sick… it's my fault."

Sam didn't reply, he just retched again and surfaced for a moment, and Dean noticed a tear dripping off the end of his nose. Dean saw his knuckles turn white as Sam clenched tighter to the basin.

"No," Dean said, knowing what his brother wanted to say. "It is. I pushed you into this shit. But hey," he rubbed a little harder, some more, "I'll get you out of this too. God knows, I've said this so many times, I might sound like a broken record. But… I will, okay? No matter what it takes."

Sam didn't say anything as he went down again but once the heaving had stopped, he rinsed, washed his face and got down to the floor, sitting down to regain his bearings. Dean knelt beside him and he turned around to Dean, bloodshot eyes blinking against the droplets of water streaming down his pale forehead. His jaw clenched once and he opened his mouth to say something, but then he came forward and his arms wound around his elder brother instead. His damp face rested against Dean's shirt, just burying itself there, and he could be three years old again.

Dean held his brother close, hand fisting the back of his sweat-soaked shirt, wanting to let go because they could practically be a pair of girls right now, but at the same time, never wanting to let go. Sam spoke against his shirt then, in a muffled voice. "It's not your fault, Dean, never was, never will be. And for everything that happened, all the mistakes — I forgave you long ago. I think it's time you forgive yourself too. And while you're at that, I need you to do something else."

They broke away and Dean sat back, looking up at his brother's earnest expression. "What?"

He pursed his lips. "I know you're doing everything… and _I _will do everything not to give up. But… if I can't — if I _don't_…" he swallowed, watching Dean's eyes widen more and more, "if I don't pull through… I need you to forgive me."

Dean looked away, a lump in his throat, but Sam clutched his shoulders and turned him around so Dean was face-to-face again. Sam nodded at once, urging Dean to accept what he had just said, and at long last, Dean nodded back. There was silence as they sat there for a while, waiting for Sam to decide that he felt well enough to get to his room. The younger brother's hand went up to his forehead and he shut his eyes before squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Dean sighed at this.

"Headache?"

"Y-Yeah."

"How bad?"

"Not very."

Dean knew that he was lying, though. He patted Sam's shoulder. "Come on, let's get you to bed. You can sleep it off."

The younger Winchester nodded and with his brother's help, both of them got to Dean's previous room. Once Sam was sitting on his bed, Dean made to leave.

"I'll bring you some Tylenol," he said.

Sam looked up at and chuckled. "I don't think it's gonna help. Besides, I'll just throw it back up. Leave it be."

His brother washed a hand over his face, coming back to the bed. "Anything else…?"

"You've done enough for me, Dean. Go get some rest now."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, sleep well," the elder Winchester replied. He paused for a moment before sniggering. "Besides, after all of this, I won't be surprised if we grow a pair of boobs each."

Sam smacked him on his side with the back of his hand as he grinned. "Shut up."

"How much do you wanna bet that my boobs will be better than yours?"

"Absolutely not, dude, you're too short and _small_."

"Hey, you're the giant. But, man…" Dean raised his hands to his chest in a cupping motion, indicating a pair of breasts. "Awesome."

"You are imagining boobs on you, and wondering who the girl here is?"

"That's easy — it's you," Dean replied.

"Sure, _sweetheart_."

"Aw, Sammy, are you flirting with your own brother now? You really need to get some. The dry spell looks bad."

"Get out and go to sleep," Sam said, his lips twitching into a smile while his eyes tried to look irate. "I wasn't flirting."

"Sure, you weren't, _darling_. Either ways, I'm going."

"Oh, look who needs to uh…_get some _now!"

Both of them sniggered at that and Dean watched Sam lay down before shutting the door behind him, feeling much better than before.

**~o~**

Castiel sat alone at the library, reading his tenth book since Sam had got sick. He hadn't found anything useful yet, but neither had Dean; and Castiel couldn't quite shake off the despair that held between him and Dean in the library each time either of them shut a book after having gone through it. There would be hopelessness for a while, and then the next book would be pulled out of the shelf. The Men of Letters had plenty of information of supernatural healing — just nothing on cancer, it seemed.

Or, Castiel hoped, nothing that he and Dean had found yet.

The human emotions of grief and sadness coursed through Castiel every time he thought of Sam dying, and how Dean would be if that actually happened. He was still new to this, and the sinking feeling caught him by surprise every time. He missed his Grace — he could, perhaps, have handled this situation better if he were still an angel. He could sense, often, that Dean needed support, but he wasn't sure of how to go about it. He felt bad, because Sam would always have Dean, no matter what — but there was no one that Dean could rely on for comfort. The younger brother he'd sought out for such purposes was slipping away from his grasp he now and needed his big brother, so it was natural that Dean didn't want to look weak in front of Sam.

Despite being human, Castiel didn't know how to go about being one. The sadness and hopelessness at the loss of his Grace, and then having to see Sam and Dean's plight were overwhelming. So much that ever since Sam had been given four months to live, over everything else, Castiel could feel all the terrible emotions creep into his senses and steal away his hunger and sometimes — even his sleep. He found it difficult to make conversation with the Winchesters of late — he either couldn't concentrate long enough to listen to what the other person was saying, or he just lacked interest most of the times. He still got nightmares, but he didn't tell Dean because the other man already had too much to worry about.

He wondered, sometimes, if it was normal for humans to feel sorrow and wretchedness to this extent, but he was pretty sure it was. It hadn't all started suddenly anyway. He had felt the impending hopelessness ever since Metatron had tricked him, but it had increased after everything with the Winchesters.

Castiel swallowed and turned the page of his tome when he heard Dean make his way to the library from the war room. The elder Winchester looked like he had enjoyed a well-deserved nap.

"Hey!" he said, coming over to the formal angel. "How come you didn't go to sleep?"

"I wasn't tired," Castiel replied, looking up at Dean.

The other man frowned. "Seriously? I mean—" his eyes swivelled over to the coffee mug next to Castiel, "have you been sleeping at all?"

"Yes, I do sleep, Dean. I'm not an angel anymore." Castiel almost cringed as he heard the hopelessness in his voice. He didn't mean it to come out that way.

Dean seemed speechless for a moment, but then his hand came and patted Castiel on the shoulder once. "I'm sorry, man. I wish I could help more."

"No, Sam is important now," Castiel replied, getting back to his book, feeling his interest in conversation wane slightly. "You're doing the right thing," he muttered.

Dean sighed and took the seat next to him. Castiel could sense, more than feel the other man licking his lower lip, apparently trying to say something carefully.

"Hey…" Dean began, "I…" he sighed again. He did that a lot these days. Tearing his eyes away from the fine print, Castiel turned back to his friend.

"It's okay, Dean."

The latter nodded, his green eyes losing a bit of their colour. "I'm just…" he gulped, "I'm just worried about Sammy. You understand, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"And… and if there's anything…" he shook his head, "sorry I'm ignoring you, man. We're supposed to be friends and… I'm being selfish."

"You're not selfish, Dean," said Castiel quietly, narrowing his eyes. How could Dean even think that way, after everything?

The former angel would never forget the day that he got him out of Hell, and held on to his soul while putting his body together. He remembered inserting the muscle tendons into bone, adjusting the fibres so that they ran right again. And then he recollected adjusting each organ, coiling the blood vessels around them and filling them with blood, righting those lungs, and getting them to work for air, and then getting that heart to beat — that golden heart, before finally smoothing on the skin over it. He'd left the freckles on because those didn't seem like blemishes, but perfections. And then he'd poured the soul into the human body he had just rebuilt, not knowing at the time, that this man and his brother would be the two people he valued the most — above everything else. But he knew one thing. He'd had to do all of this — fight through Hell for forty years, only and only because a man loved his brother so much, he literally sold his soul for him.

Castiel looked back into those sad, green eyes. Dean had been talking about something, but he didn't know what. He wished he hadn't zoned out in between, but it was impossible to concentrate nowadays. So he smiled — he just widened his lips and Dean, seeing this, smiled back, the skin near his eyes crinkling as he did so.

"Glad everything is okay with you, Cas," he said. He glanced at his friend's book and walked over to the shelf, drawing out another one for himself.

"Still got time before Sam wakes up," Dean said, "gotta take him back to the hospital. Poor kid's having a bad day already…" He looked distressed. Castiel had been in his room when Sam and Dean had come back, but he didn't have to be an eyewitness to know how much the chemotherapy would have exhausted Sam.

He did not, however, reply to Dean. Instead, he trained his eyes on the book in front of him, vowing to remove all that sadness of Dean's face and put him back together just the way he had all those years ago.

* * *

**A/N:** So about Sam's meds. In truth, seizure prophylaxis for brain tumour consists of prescription of steroids along with the anticonvulsant which in this case, is phenytoin (because carbamazepine has a bad interaction with cisplatin). I excluded the steroids because one of their actions is immunosuppression. Sam is already fighting a viral infection, so I thought it wouldn't be logical for a doctor to prescribe something that would weaken his immune system further at this point. I couldn't find any info on this online; nothing in my books either, so I'm using my logic here. If anybody knows that this is wrong, please tell me and I'll get him to take the steroids too. But as far as I know, you don't prescribe steroids when there's a pre-existing infection, or if the patient has a weak immune system.

So, sorry about the ramble! Reviews? :)


	13. Rough Nights

**A/N: **Another midday update from my side, lol. Anyway, my laptop died last week so most of this chapter was written on pen and paper and then transferred to a friend's laptop, which is where I'm actually posting it from. This also means the next few updates will take a while, despite the fact that ob/gyn got over and I actually have a bit more time in my hands. Gah! Bad time for laptop to die. :(

Anyway, thanks for all the response! You guys rock! :D

This chapter gets pretty heavy towards the end, and I think I should attach a trigger warning. It is depressing, it was depressing and a little creepy for me to write as well, and I was seriously freaked out by the end of it. You will know what is coming before it comes in full force and if these things affect you, please, please don't read. Other than that, I'm very nervous to post this chapter, and I hope I did it right.

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**12. Rough Nights**

When Sam woke up from his nap, his headache had partially disappeared. Yet, the remnants of it taunted him, and he could feel a building pressure behind his eyes. He looked at the clock on his bedside table and realised that Dean had let him sleep in for another hour, and since he hadn't been woken up yet, his brother was probably about to let him continue for some more time. He felt a rush of gratitude towards Dean as he touched his feet to the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his palms.

He swallowed. He wasn't nauseous, but his throat was itchy from the residual flu. His head also felt heavy. When he looked around at the bedding and the white sheets around him, he could see long, dark strands of hair littering it. The hair loss was getting worse with passing time and Sam honestly didn't fancy the idea of having to shave his head.

He got up from his bed, stumbled a little and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The taste in his mouth was just gross from the chemotherapy and then the throwing up, and he needed to get rid of it. Once he'd brushed and then washed his face, he walked to the war room, from where he could see Dean and Castiel working in the library.

"Hey," he called out to them.

It sounded like 'eh', and Sam cleared his throat as the other men turned to him, Dean raising an eyebrow. "You woke up before I came?" he asked Sam."That's an improvement."

'Not sleepy," the latter explained, and then paused as two sets of eyes looked at him intently. Dean stood up from his place and Castiel's gaze was swivelling from one Winchester to the other. Sam gulped. He knew why they were doing this.

He opened his mouth again."Dean?"

It didn't sound like Dean. It sounded like...

_"Jane?"_ Sam said again, desperately, trying to speak out his brother's name – but failing miserably. Panic fired through his fibres. What was happening?

Dean had come up to him, his worried expression changing into a calming one with effort. He put a hand on Sam's elbow. "It's okay, Sam, come on. Let's get something inside of you. What do you want to eat?"

Sam shook his head, drawing in shaky breaths. How was Dean so calm? Why wasn't he worried?

_"Jane!"_

"Dude, you've full-on given me a sex-change," Dean said, flashing him a wavering smile. "Eat something now, so that you don't have to kneel before the toilet all night from the nausea that your other meds will cause you."

It was true. Sam's other medication caused a bit of nausea too, which was why he had to take them after or during meals, but in combination with the chemo, Dr Greene had warned a rough night if he didn't eat right (and she hadn't specified the number of episodes like last time, which only made it sound worse). But how on earth could Dean be so calm, when Sam... Sam couldn't speak?

"Ga weeg..." he whispered, feeling stupid and helpless and annoyed. _Can't speak._ There was a lump in his throat.

"I know, man,' said Dean softly, rubbing Sam's elbow, "and I'm sorry. But the doc said that it would happen, right? It will go right away after some radiation too. C'mere." He led Sam to the table and got him to sit down as Castiel came over with his book. He looked pale and drawn, and his eyes had dark circles underneath them. Sam wondered if Dean had noticed this.

He waited, as Dean got him a tray with toast and soup and placed four small pills with a glass of water on the side. "Eat up, and then you can take the meds."

Sam nodded, wondering if old people needed as much medication as he did as he started to eat. Each bite of toast, each spoon of soup settled heavily, and he knew that it would all come back up soon. The lump in his throat hadn't gone, and Dean was sitting before him, bright green eyes beseeching Sam to eat. The younger Winchester just did as his big brother told him to, and ate, finally taking the pills too. Dean patted him on the shoulder.

"Wanna go back to sleep?"

Sam shook his head. The phenytoin wouldn't let him sleep after a while, and the anti-viral was already making him a little nauseous despite the anti-emetics.

"Walk?" Dean offered.

Sam shook his head again. He didn't know what he wanted to do. All he knew was that he wanted to be able to speak normally. Why was this disease taking everything away from him? Why was he left so damaged, so _crippled_? What was the point of anything if it was going to be this way?

"Sam." Dean had realised that his brother's brain was working at top speed. "Look at me," he said again.

Sam shook his head, the lump in his throat growing bigger and constricting him. He drew in a shaky breath.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, leaning forward on his seat. "Hey, man, you're gonna be okay. Just give it some time, yeah?"

Sam licked his lips, nodded, but refused to meet eyes with Dean. His brother sighed. "Cas?"

Castiel turned his attention to the brothers. "Yes, Dean."

"You wanna go for a walk?"

"I would like that."

Dean looked at his brother. "Come on, now you've gotta come. Cas is there too."

_"Oo oh."_

The elder Winchester raised an eyebrow. "No way, little brother, you're coming along. Plus Cas and I? Alone? We need you for entertainment, man." He winked at Sam, and then smiled, seeing Sam's bewildered expression at the fact that he had been able to decipher the gibberish that Sam had just spoken.

"Come on, Sammy, don't insult me," Dean said mildly, "I've been listening to your babble ever since you were in your diapers. Think it's any different now? You should stop being so surprised." He put his hands on his hips. "So you wanna grab your jacket now, or you want me to spew out the other stuff that I know about you?"

The younger man smiled back at his brother, nodded, and returned to his room to get changed. When he was ready, his brother was waiting at the door with Castiel at the door and the three of them headed out together. They had a pleasant walk, after which they even went for ice cream. Sam ordered a scoop of vanilla which did a great deal to soothe his stomach and Dean ordered a sundae. Castiel was hesitant to try this new human thing, which was understandable, as from his point of view, Sam reckoned the ice cream just resembled frozen, colourful goo. Castiel did know the entire history of how human beings had started to consume ice cream, though, and recounted it wistfully while sharing Dean's ice cream, until the hunter asked him to get his own sundae, realising that Castiel was liking it. They had a good couple of hours together, many worries forgotten, and when they got back to the bunker, Dean let Sam go back to sleep.

Soon, it was time for the second radiation session of the day. It went by all right but a few hours after that Sam's headache had escalated, finally going on to increase fourfold. There were no steroids to control the brain swelling – the cause of Sam's headache, and this fact made the pain all the worse to bear. By night, all Sam could do was _not_ hold his head and whimper like a girl.

He went to bed early and fell into a very disturbed and pain-filled slumber, only to be woken up by his dinner sloshing about in his stomach. He had to run to the bathroom then and he made it just on time too. By the time he was done, though, he wasn't even sure he could get up from his kneeling position before the toilet. When he did move his stomach churned again so he stayed where he was, forehead resting in his hands and his eyes covered from the too-bright light. He was sore all over and his head was pounding even worse, making him want to throw up another time.

Sam shivered. He wanted to get back to bed, and nothing else. He was so tired, he just wanted to pass out. He couldn't, however, move, as the slightest twitch of his body was causing everything around him to spin. So with much effort he propped himself against the wall and waited where he was, hoping the horrible sensation would pass, or, a small voice inside his head told him, _that Dean would come and find him_.

About fifteen minutes later, Sam found that at least one of his prayers had been answered as he heard footsteps approach the bathroom. They stopped short right outside the door, and he heard a gasp. "Sam?!"

A pair of hands were on his shoulders as someone crouched beside him. "Sam, hey, what happened?"

It was Dean, and Sam opened his eyes to see Dean's concerned face hovering above his as the back of his brother's palm felt his forehead. Sam weakly reached up to swat it away, but it was gone before then. "I thought you felt warm for a minute there," Dean explained, "what happened? Head hurt again? Talk to me, Sam."

Those were too many questions which Sam couldn't answer so he put a hand to his head, shut his eyes and looked down, swallowing convulsively, trying to communicate his pain to his brother. The light was very bright and Sam felt like he was about to puke again as well. But he couldn't move.

"Throwing up any more?" Dean's voice asked, hands tightening on Sam's shoulders.

"Why..." Sam replied, trying to say 'light'. Frustrated, he tried to talk again. _"Why."_

"Yeah, okay," Dean replied, and the contact was momentarily gone as Sam heard the light switch flick off, plunging the room into comforting, welcoming darkness. Dean was back next to him. "Better?"

Sam nodded, the nausea having eased slightly, but he still wasn't ready to move, and Dean seemed to have figured that out. "Whenever you wanna," the elder Winchester said, adjusting himself beside Sam, ready to help with anything that the younger man needed. Amazed at his brother's ability to guess what was going on with him, Sam rested his head against the wall.

He never did get to go back to his room, though. Not for the next few hours anyway. The attacks of nausea never subsided and he was stuck in the bathroom, throwing up every ten minutes until he was turned inside-out. After the first few bouts, Dean called Dr Greene and she asked him to try and keep Sam hydrated and take him to the hospital if he was still throwing up in the morning.

Eventually Dean moved Sam back to his room, to the comfort of his bed and how he did it between all the puking and the agony, Sam never knew. He was half out of his mind by midnight, though, and at one point, the frustration reached such a level that he asked Dean to put a bullet in him just then. Dean, though, paid no attention to his babble – he just took care of Sam even more. He pulled up a chair next to his brother's bed, cleaned out the dustbin at regular intervals and kept pushing the Gatorade into Sam's system, despite the fact that it all came back up with a vengeance.

Castiel joined Sam and Dean a little after midnight and helped with all his might. By that time, Sam was so tired, angry and desperate, that he didn't even have the strength to get embarrassed at the former angel witnessing his helplessness. He just wanted it all to stop.

When two o'clock rolled in, Sam seemed to have finally stopped vomiting. His head still hurt, though, but he was able to sleep, no matter how disturbed it was. Dean and Castiel slept as well – right there in Sam's room. Castiel crashed on the cold floor beside the bed and Dean dozed off on his chair. But then, Sam heard Castiel stir, wake up and leave the room just an hour after he'd slept.

By morning, Sam could speak but the headache hadn't waned off completely. He had to go back for chemo after that and that didn't help him any better with his pain. By afternoon, it was a repeat of the previous night's events with Sam sweating, nauseous and in pain in bed, as Dean and Castiel tried to help him. At that moment, Sam realised he'd never wished harder in his life for death to come and take him away.

**~o~**

Dean seriously considered shifting base to the bathroom with Sam after everything that had happened the previous night. But then his brother had been able to regain control for a few hours, only to be inflicted with more chemo and radiation therapy, making him rebuild his fortress in the bathroom. By the time Sam fell asleep for the afternoon, Dean seriously needed a drink or five.

He poured himself some whiskey and sat before Castiel, who was reading as usual. "Cas," he said, trying to grab the other man's attention.

The latter looked up with a questioning expression. "Yes, Dean?"

"Want some?" Dean asked him, raising the whiskey glass.

'No, thanks."

There was silence, and Castiel turned back to his book, blue eyes darting between the prints as Dean swallowed down the honey-coloured drink, warmth rising up his throat. He could feel a lump work its way up as well – actually, it just permanently seemed to be there these days, ever-present, and always reminding him of everything that was going around. He had no idea how to control it. All he knew was that he was falling apart – bursting open at the seams, and he wasn't sure if there was much he could take anymore. He was barely able to hold it together between Sam and everything else, and he wasn't even sure how to handle himself anymore.

'You seem troubled," said Castiel suddenly, cutting through his thoughts.

"Ya think?" Dean muttered, raising the glass to his lips and draining the last of the whiskey.

"You can talk to me," Castiel replied blandly and Dean looked up at him, shocked at the offer.

"No, it's all right," he said, gulping, "but thanks, Cas."

"I'm serious, Dean."

"I know," he replied, "and I appreciate it. Thanks. Really."

There was a pause, as Castiel flipped over a page in his book. Then he spoke again. "It's not fair, you know. You're always there to talk to me, and listen to me, and you, in turn are not receptive to the same gesture."

"Well, you know me," Dean chuckled softly, "I'm not the talking type."

"And yet, you crave someone to share your troubles with," Castiel pointed out earnestly.

The elder Winchester cringed at this. True, he found himself wishing harder and harder that Bobby were alive – he had always been the person whom Dean could really talk to, apart from Sam, but it was all _so hard_, and there was no one...

"Talk to me," said Castiel in a low voice, repeating Dean's own dialogue from long ago. "Please."

The other man let out a shaky laugh. "What's there to talk about, Cas? You know what's wrong. Do I have to tell you? I mean..." he swallowed against the lump in his throat, staring at the polished wooden table, and drawing a finger along the willowy pattern on it, He could feel Castiel's piercing gaze on him as he spoke again.

"I mean," he repeated, "it's not like I haven't told you... it's just too much, man. With Sam so sick... _four months_... it's like the bastard isn't even giving me time, y'know..." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "He doesn't even deserve it, Cas. What has Sam ever done to hurt anyone – knowingly, at least? It's just unfair. And then... you... I don't even know how to help you. And there's Kev and God knows, the kid could be grabbed by fallen angels any time if he isn't careful, but he left, just so Sam could have his privacy and..." he sighed, "I don't even know any more, Cas. I don't know."

Dean felt tears blur his vision and he blinked them away because, _fuck_, how many times had he cried in front of Castiel in the last week alone? He might as well grow a uterus and a pair of ovaries along with those boobs that he and Sam had talked about – because this was ridiculous.

Castiel didn't say anything, understandably, as really, what was there to say now? Dean reached up and wiped his eyes on his sleeves, looking up, finally, at the former angel.

"Sorry, man," he said, "didn't mean to shoot you with that truckload of shit... I just..."

"I know," Castiel replied. "It's okay, Dean."

The latter licked his lips and nodded, heart fluttering slightly as he looked into the concerned blue eyes, averting his gaze as he felt more tears erupt, and finally bringing himself under control, because he couldn't lose it like this again. He just couldn't. He had to stay strong for Sam. For himself.

**~o~**

Castiel watched Dean exit for his own afternoon nap as he shut the book and rested his head in his arms. He was tired, and his head felt a little fuzzy, but he didn't think he could afford to sleep, because who would help Sam then? Dean had enough on his shoulders, as such, and there was nothing he, Castiel was doing to help.

He recollected Dean's words from minutes ago. _And then... you... I don't even know how to help you._

This meant only one thing to Castiel: he was being a burden to Dean. He had to stop. He had to stop being one of the causes of Dean's troubles – because he hated it, hated it so much to see tears in the elder Winchester's eyes. It threatened to break him apart, and knowing he was one of the causes for those tears... he had to do something and ease the weight off Dean's shoulders. He just had to. But first, he would help Sam get back on his feet. That was the most important thing at that moment.

He raised his head from his arms, rubbed his tired eyes with his knuckles, and started to read again.

**~o~**

Sam was feeling positively crappy by evening. The chemotherapy and radiation were aggravating and exacerbating every single pain and problem in his body and he just wanted to rest, but wasn't able to. More than anything, he wanted to be independent, and that was being ripped away from him so ruthlessly, there were no words. He was beginning to get very frustrated at this. Did it have to come to this?

He was in a bad mood after his nap, refusing to go for a walk, or eat, or exercise. Not that he felt up to any of that anyway. His stomach was at constant upheaval and his limbs felt like jelly. Dean tried to persuade him to do all those things, though, and Sam felt like he was behaving like a petulant toddler when he refused, but he reckoned he had the right to be as frustrated as he was. Dean seemed to agree with him on the matter, and didn't push Sam harder after that.

Then, as scheduled, Sam had to report back to radiation, and the headache was back, and God, he was just so pissed, he wanted to throw things when he came home. He lay down on the bed, brushing away strands of hair from the pillow angrily. He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep after that, and wouldn't respond even to Dean, who came to check on him and to try to get him to eat soup. His elder brother realised very easily that Sam wasn't really asleep, but he pretended otherwise for Sam's sake. After a while, Sam actually fell asleep, and wasn't in pain for once, but then again, the bliss wasn't going to last because he was Sam Fucking Winchester and he was destined to take all the crap that the universe threw his way.

So he woke up, nauseous as hell, and thanks to the fact that he hadn't eaten anything, he was reduced to dry heaving in the bathroom, each bout of it hitting him so hard, he was pretty sure his eyeballs were about to pop out of their sockets and roll away. He tried to breathe, tried to get his body to calm down, but then his body had stopped listening to him the day he had completed the first trial, so that was about as effective asking Dean to ditch the Impala.

Dean, he realised, was probably in the war room, thinking Sam was really asleep, and Sam knew that his brother wouldn't venture this way for a while. And for some reason, he felt much, much worse about that than he should have. He flushed the toilet, and shaking, he lowered himself down to his haunches and rested back on his ass, gripping his hair in his hands. After a few minutes, when he looked up, he was staring at a clump of hair in his palms.

Not a few strands, not even a lot of strands, a fucking _clump_.

That did it. Sam wasn't sure, but something broke inside of him. A mixture of despair and anger made itself evident in him as he pushed himself onto his feet somehow, and stumbled to the sink to look into the mirror. A thin, pale, sweaty face stared back at him, blue-green eyes bright with a slight sheen of tears. There was no evidence that he had just lost a whole clump of hair.

He ran a hand through the long strands again. When he looked after that, there was another clump on his palm, stuck between his fingers. So he repeated the motion, and kept doing it, clusters of hair coming off and landing on the pristine tiles in the bathroom.

Sam could see a bald patch on his scalp a few minutes later, appearing right behind his fringe. He laughed, tears spilling out of his eyes as he gripped the fringe and tugged, and it came off in an easy rip. And he laughed again, throwing away the new lock of hair, dusting his hands to get rid of the single hairs littering them.

More tears cascaded from his eyes and he sniffled, letting out a sob, then laughing, and reaching for another bunch of his hair and pulling it free. He put both his hands to the sides of the head and drew off the hair from there, and it hurt now – his scalp burned, and tiny droplets of blood were blossoming over, but Sam didn't care. He was just about to tear off another clump when there was a voice.

"Sammy?"

Hands gripped his wrists and Sam fought against them, but Dean's voice was in his ear. "Let go. Let go, Sam!"

"Nghh," Sam struggled, one hand leaving his hair and trying to pry himself free from his brother's grip, nails digging into Dean's flesh, but his elder brother wouldn't leave him.

"Sam, stop!" he said sternly. "_What are you doing?!"_

"No, no!" Sam protested, and Dean held on tighter.

"Cas! Cas! I need help!" Dean roared, as his younger brother dug his nails deeper into his wrist, causing him to hiss. "Stop it, you fucking idiot!"

And then, Sam stopped struggling. He halted, gazing at himself in the mirror, seeing Dean behind him, his elder brother's expression reflecting a lot of worry. The younger man dropped his hand to his sides after that and just watched the bald patches with his pale scalp shining through, some parts even red from the abuse. He felt Dean ease away his own grip.

"Let's get you to bed, Sammy," he said, coming forward and putting an arm around Sam as his voice shook. "Come on."

Sam caught a glimpse of Castiel at the doorway before shaking his head. And then he laughed.

He let out hard, loud, barking laughs, his chest heaving, his body shaking, his eyes watering, and he laughed like he never had in his entire life. He laughed until he wasn't laughing anymore and before he knew it, he had crumpled to the floor, taking Dean along with him, and he was still shaking, and his eyes were still watering, but not from laughter.

That was when the crying started. Noisy, howling, soul-shattering sobs now echoed through the tiled room, reverberating through the silence and Sam's chest seized up from the uncontrollable sobbing as he bent over, Dean's arms around him for support. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move as each sob ripped through him, wrecking his body, pulling him apart from the inside. He coughed, sputtered, hiccupped and choked while tears flowed down his face, spattering onto the collar and his shirt, dripping off the end of his nose and falling onto the floor that was now decorated with his own hair.

Dean was now saying something – what, Sam didn't know, and he heard Castiel too. A hand moved up and down his shaking back and a voice whispered in his ear as his face was rested against a shoulder. Then the same hand moved from his back and cupped his neck, and he coughed, sobs subsiding a little, as he finally heard Dean speak in a thick voice.

"Sammy, no, please, you're going to be okay..."

Was he? Was any of it going to be okay? And how many times had Dean repeated those words in the last day-and-a-half? Did he believe it himself? Sam sobbed again and Dean was patting his back, rocking him slightly, and Sam couldn't ever remember him doing this since their childhood. He knew he was scaring Dean, but he was so, so scared himself, he wanted, seriously to believe that his big brother would fix it for him again, but it didn't look as though it was about to happen this time. No quick fixes and no escape from Sam's impending destiny. No escape from death. He was dying, and there was nothing that Dean could do about it. There was nothing that Dean could do, but watch. It was over.

_Game over, kiddo. You have zero lives left._

Horrifyingly, that particular voice in his head was Dean's voice, and not Death's. And so Sam melted into his brother's embrace and let him offer all the comfort he could, knowing that Dean needed it as much as he did. And once the sobs had gone, once he had pulled himself away from Dean, all that remained between them was unimaginable, deathly silence.

* * *

**A/N**: So... I'm pretty nervous about the end. I was pretty sad and restless too – the breakdown scene did take a lot out of me. There's only one other scene from my own stories that's freaked me out this much and that was from my Potter fanfiction. And that was actually a death scene. So... how did I do? Reviews? Any comments on Sam's breakdown scene would also be appreciated, as it makes me quite anxious!

**Review response:**

**Charlotte:** Thank you so much! This chapter was so, so hard to write. I was just hoping this wouldn't be a deal-breaker for my readers! So glad it touched you, though! Thank you! ;)

**annburgum:** Meep, thank you! :D I am not sure how I managed to write it, but I went out with my friends for comfort food after and got new clothes, so that cheered me up some. Hehe. I'll post the next one as soon as I get time! I'll go home next week, and I should be able to do something about the laptop situation until then. Until then, it's my friend's netbook and pen-and-paper, haha. I'm terrible with emotions, and am really flattered that you love the emotional dimension of this. Also, very, very happy you agree with the characterisation. Thank you so much! :)


	14. No More Pain

**A/N:** I must be mental – I have an exam tomorrow, but I'm doing this. Anyway, here's the next chapter, typed again, on a borrowed laptop, lol. A little early because I was late with the last one. Hope you guys like it! Thanks for all the amazing reviews and support on that last chapter! It was so hard, and you guys, just – you're so amazing. :)

This chapter was supposed to have a lot more – a cliffhanger, even, but I reckon that will have to come in the next one, as this already got too long lol. This one, though, starts with a bit of OOCness on Sam's part, which, unfortunately, has a medical explanation later on.

PS: Everyone take a good look at the chapter title before reading, ok? ;)

* * *

**STAND STILL AND BREATHE**

**13. No More Pain**

Sam shivered against the cold bathroom floor as he got out of Dean's embrace and shepherded his emotions while trying to avert the latter's worried gaze. He knew that his brother was waiting for him to say something, but at that moment, he was just concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His chest, throat, eyes and head were all aching from everything that had just happened and his breaths were still hitching, single tears falling down here and there as he leaned back against the wall, his chin quivering involuntarily.

When it all finally seemed to be under control, Sam felt tired – drowsy, even and Dean pressed a box of tissues into his hands, presumably brought over there by Castiel. Sam then wiped down his face as the embarrassment finally started to creep in. He handed the box back to Dean, who fixed his green-eyed gaze upon his brother. Sam nodded, conveying to Dean that he was all right.

His face looked swollen and blotchy in the mirror. His eyes were terribly bloodshot and puffed-up. The bald patches on his scalp were still there, and one or two were bleeding slightly. Dean got up, and was standing behind Sam as the latter reached over to finger his sore scalp. Before he could do that, though, Dean had caught his wrist again.

"Don't."

"'M fine," Sam muttered at this, slurring from tiredness (or the tumours, whatever) and sounding as though he had a bad cold. He sniffed. His nose was stopped up. "N't doing 'nything."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied calmly, bringing Sam's hand down. "Just don't touch it for now. I'll see what we can put on that."

"N'thing," Sam sighed. "N'thing's g'nna help."

"Hey..."

Sam jerked away Dean's comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wanna sl'p," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Dean replied. "You want me to get you some soup?"

"No," Sam replied as he turned on the faucet to let the water stream so he could wash his face.

"Okay," said Dean, "let me know if you feel up to it." He moved away as Sam washed, wiped his face, and headed back to his room, shutting and locking the door behind him before finally dropping onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow. He tried to fall asleep by pulling the comforter around him and taking in the smell of the Impala from the pillows (no matter how many times the sheets and pillow covers were changed, Dean's room always seemed to smell like the car). Sleep, however, did not come easily.

After a while, there was a knock on his door. "Sam?" It was Dean.

Sam shifted over. His nose was still blocked and his throat felt sore from the mouth breathing. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "What?" he called out tiredly to Dean.

"Open up." The elder Winchester provided no other explanation.

Sam sat up on the bed for a moment, letting some of the initial dizziness pass as he went on to unlock the door for Dean. He came back and sat on the bed immediately, as he felt unsteady on his feet, but was surprised to see the sleeping bag in Dean's arms as the other man entered.

"Just in case you need anything during the night," said Dean, squatting as he spread the sleeping bag on the floor. Sam would say something, but he really wanted his brother to be there and there was no use acting all manly about it, because that had already been thrown out of the window thirty minutes ago.

"You sleep at all?" Dean asked him again.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and stopped midway, realising what he was doing. His throat constricted as he took his hand down, throwing away the lock of hair that came off into the dustbin beside his bed. "No," he said, answering Dean's question and feeling his chest tighten. He wondered if he had any tears remaining to be shed at all.

"Hey." Dean came over and sat beside Sam on the bed once he had adjusted the sleeping bag. "We'll take care of it later on, okay?" he said, watching Sam finger the single hair that hadn't fallen into the bin. "It's going to be fine. It will grow back. You know it will."

Sam nodded, more tears springing in his eyes, and then looked away, but not before Dean had noticed. In a moment, Dean's hand was pushing Sam's shoulder, coaxing him to lie down. "Go to sleep now, brother."

Sam didn't resist. He lay down and turned to his side, hiding his face from Dean so he wouldn't see the tears that had started again. For a moment, Dean patted Sam's arm. "Calm down. Try to sleep."

Sam nodded as he shut his eyes and palmed them, letting a few salty droplets slip through to wet his hand, and Dean's weight on the bed was still there, until Sam was able to stop shaking. Then the elder man patted Sam's back once and got down to his place on the floor. Sam could hear his brother's breaths even out in a while. He couldn't sleep, however, from the phenytoin and the headache and stuffed nose, and he continued to stare into the darkness until a third, embarrassing round of tears started. His breath hitched once, and he heard Dean stir.

"Sammy?"

"'M o-okay," Sam whispered.

Dean respected this and didn't come back to sit on the bed as Sam cuffed at his tears. There was silence for a while, except for Sam's small sniffles, and Dean spoke again. "You need anything?"

"No."

"Just get some rest then. You have chemo and radiation tomorrow."

"Dn't wanna go," Sam replied in a thick voice.

Dean was quiet for a couple of minutes. "All right," he said after that. "We'll see about that in the morning."

"No. Dn't want chemo. Dn't want raditat'n."

Dean took in a sharp breath. "Okay."

"No... pr'mise m-me."

_"What?"_

"Let it go." Sam felt another single tear slip as he said it. He really didn't feel well, and he wasn't even sure what the tears were about anymore. It seemed to be everything at once – Dean's agony over watching Sam this way, and yet the comfort that he was always ready to provide, Castiel stressing over Sam the way he was, Sam's sudden need for dependence, the pain, the hair, the neurological shit, the puking, the fainting, the cramps... and dying despite everything. Sam couldn't even list it all anymore.

"You pr'mise?" he spoke again.

"Don't—"

"Please. Cn't take it 'nymore, D'n."

There was silence again.

"Okay, then," Dean finally replied. "I promise. But you should still sleep."

'C-Can't," said Sam, taking a shuddering breath and burying his face in his pillow again. He heard Dean sigh and move, and the weight on his bed was back.

"Hey,' said Dean, sounding scared and concerned, "what is it?"

"'M fine."

"You hurting somewhere?" Dean asked, ignoring that.

Sam sighed, and then nodded into the pillow.

"Where?" Dean sounded like he was talking to a twelve-year-old. "Sam?" he said again, when his brother hadn't replied.

"W'nna sleep," Sam repeated.

Almost immediately, the weight on his bed was gone, and he heard Dean exit the room, only to re-enter a while later. He turned over and looked at his brother, who was holding the bottle of alprazolam pills. He shook his head. "N'seous."

"Just dry swallow one," Dean suggested.

Sam shook his head again. "Make me gag."

Dean pursed his lips, and then sat back down on Sam's bed, handing him the pill bottle. "Hold this."

Sam did as he was told while his brother exited the room again and came back with a bowl and a spoon. He took the pill bottle from Sam, shook one of them out into the bowl and crushed it with the back of the spoon. He then scooped up the powder and poured some water onto it carefully from the bottle.

"Open up," he said, bringing the spoonful of mixture to Sam's mouth. "You can't puke this out. It's just like swallowing down saliva."

Sam put his own hand to the spoon, not wanting Dean to have to feed him, and accepted the medicine. He coughed once as the bitter mixture made its way down his throat and then Dean had him take another spoonful of water to wash it all down. They sat up for a few minutes until they were sure that the medicine was content to stay in Sam's system.

Sam lay back down after that, feeling considerably rested, the last words he heard from Dean before losing it to sleep being, "It will be all right in the morning, Sam. It will be okay. You just see."

**~o~**

Dean watched his brother shut his eyes as the nurse attached Sam to his IV. It had been an eventful morning, with Sam waking up all embarrassed about his breakdown, and not remembering how Dean had come to sleep on the floor of the room, and consequently, what he had made Dean promise, or that he'd said he wanted to stop treatment. Turned out he didn't remember anything that had happened after the breakdown. He did, however, mumble a 'sorry' to Castiel as well, and the former angel told him not to worry about it.

The doctor had warned the Winchesters about memory issues with Sam, but Dean wasn't sure she meant whole half hours' worth of memories. Yes, Sam tended to forget small things, like whether he had brushed his teeth, or whether he'd taken his meds, but it never had been so bad. So after the initial panicking in the morning, Dean had decided not to worry Sam, and to just ask Dr Greene about this one.

Either ways, after everything, Sam had been, in Dean's opinion, a little off when he'd gone to his brother's room. Sure, Dean teased Sam for being the softer, more emotional person out of the two of them, but Sam wasn't actually all that overtly sensitive either. He got angry or bitchy more easily – never so upset. His waterworks remained limited to the purely emotionally shitty experiences in their lives. Never... this way. Okay, Dean had been expecting Sam to snap at some point, and the breakdown had scared him, but not surprised him. But what happened after that...

Dean stared for a while at Sam's pale, bald head, remembering their session with the clippers that morning. The younger Winchester had approached his brother with the clippers and asked him to get rid of the unruly, wayward locks of hair that remained. Dean had obliged, heart hammering, remembering with a pang what he'd said to Sam not so long ago.

_"Give me five minutes with some clippers..."_

_Not like this, Sammy, never like this._

Dean had said they'd pick up a beanie or a ball cap like Bobby's later on, and Sam had waved him off, saying he'd be fine. He didn't need to hide it. He'd be okay. So Dean didn't push him after that.

Meanwhile at the hospital, Dean stayed on in the ward till Sam went off to sleep and then rose to meet Dr Greene. She was at her desk, writing something, when he knocked. She looked up at him and gave him a small smile.

"Come in, Dean."

He let himself in and took a seat. She leaned forward, hands interlocked, eyes questioning.

Dean cleared his throat. "Um... so... I just want to know about Sam's progress."

"He has to come for his clinics to determine that," she said, "I'll let you know after this round, on Saturday. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, cool," Dean replied. He hesitated. "I... uh..."

"Yes?"

He licked his lip. "You said there'd be memory lapses, right? For Sam?"

"Small things, yes," the doctor replied. "It's just the chemo and the radiation. They mess up with concentration and memory."

"Yeah, but... is it normal to have bigger memory lapses?" Dean asked her.

"Like?"

"Last night," said Dean, waving his hand, trying to explain, "he seemed really off. He wasn't himself. He just... he got real upset and I'm not sure why... and he never gets that upset so quickly. In the morning, he couldn't remember it."

"Getting upset?"

"Getting upset... talking to me, any of it. He wasn't feeling well, so I slept on his floor to be there to help if he needed it. In the morning, he wondered how I got there."

Dr Greene nodded once and then pursed her lips. After a while, she spoke. "Look, Dean, your brother has multiple brain tumours."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, trying not to snap. Why was she stating the obvious?

"And..." she trailed away, "sometimes, behavioural changes can occur in such conditions. Personality changes."

"So, that was because of the tumours?"

"Most probably," she replied. "The fact that Sam doesn't remember it seems to confirm it, although it's pretty rare to be happening episodically. Usually, the behavioural changes are permanent and persistent. Again, depends on what area the tumour is pressing upon, and how much oedema is there. But... there's a chance this might not remain temporary for Sam after a while."

Dean swallowed. "So... you're saying it's possible this could be persistent after some time?"

"Not necessarily, but it's a possibility, yes."

Dean took a deep breath. "So... Sam might not be Sam anymore."

She sighed. "No."

There was silence. Dean looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Dean," the doctor said suddenly, and he looked up at her. "Have you considered the option that he might have been genuinely upset?"

Dean shook his head. No. That wasn't it. Sam had taken on worse – much worse, and, well, yes, there was that thing with the wall, but he had never depended on anyone or been so helpless with anything. Dean knew that the doctor was saying this to make him look at it from another perspective – she was trying to imply that maybe Sam wasn't as bad as they thought he was – maybe there was a way, but Dean knew that this wasn't it. This was definitely the medical shit, and Sam was getting worse. But he appreciated the doctor for being so positive.

"Let me know if it gets bad," she said, "and I could write him anti-depressants or refer him to a psychiatrist."

Dean nodded, as the doctor spoke again. "Has Sam got a living will?"

He raised his eyebrows. 'Why should he have one?" It was obvious. He knew what she was saying. Sam was getting worse. It was time to make arrangements about how he should die. But no. She didn't know what Dean knew. She didn't know that there was still a chance that Sam could come out, one hundred per cent cured. No chemo, no remission, nothing. He could be completely fine.

The doctor hesitated. "It's... just advisable."

"Meaning he's not getting better?"

"I never said that," she replied, "but it's just so there's something... if things were to go in the way that we don't want them to."

"He'll be fine," said Dean shortly, standing up from his seat. He paused. "Anything else?"

"No," said Dr Greene, sounding a little intimidated, "unless you have something else you want to ask."

"No, thanks."

He walked out of the office and ran a hand over the back of his neck, letting out a deep breath and praying they wouldn't need any of the shit she was talking about.

**~o~**

Ants. Bugs. Insects. Sam could feel them running up his fingers and wrists and his toes and feet and ankles too. His limbs felt weird and ticklish, and numb sometimes. On other occasions it was like little pin-pricks, like his limbs had gone off to sleep. He ignored it; ignored it all, because most of it was just from the chemo or radiation or whatever-the-fuck. And then there was the pain.

It began one night – it had a burning, numbing quality to it and he didn't sleep – couldn't sleep and had a bad day after radiation, thanks to the aggravated headache. And it escalated. Soon, the pain came too easily. He didn't even have to hurt himself much for it. For instance, he got a paper cut off researching about Metatron's spell and it hurt like a mother. He just managed not to gasp, and Dean was already amused at the intolerance. And everywhere he bumped, everything he ran into by mistake sent an exploding, blinding pain up whatever part of his body was in contact.

Sometimes, when he stood up suddenly from sitting for a while he felt incredible, terrible dizziness pass through him and he would have to grit his teeth to keep from passing out. Sometimes, he felt so warm at night; he'd want to sleep on ice. Sometimes he'd sweat so much, from odd places; it was like someone was wringing all the water out of him.

Sam hadn't told Dean anything about his new symptoms, mostly because he didn't want his brother to lose more sleep over him. Already, his memory lapses were getting worse, and the doctor attributed them to the brain lesions. After the hair on his head fell off, the hair all over his body proceeded to fall as well and soon, Sam had no eyebrows, eyelashes, or facial hair. His arms and legs were mercilessly clean too.

Anyway, Sam didn't think these new symptoms were a big deal. It was uncomfortable, yes, but so was everything else, and he'd just have to deal with it all. So he dealt. He didn't make a sound at the pain. Dean, of course, noticed the sweating and everything and kept Sam dosed up on electrolytes just in case. But it only got worse, going overboard on one fine day.

Sam was in the bathroom one evening on a Saturday. He'd just come back from finishing the clinic, and the next day was a rest day, which meant he already felt much better. The tests so far showed no improvement and Dean was getting more and more worry lines on his forehead. Currently, however, Sam was going through his second nadir and they'd stopped his anti-viral and replaced it with corticosteroids, which did help a bit with the headaches. But that also meant that Sam would have to be extra-careful this time because he was more likely to catch an infection.

Presently, in the bathroom, Sam undid his zipper and fumbled with his boxers, one hand palming the cool tiles behind the toilet as he tried to relieve himself. He waited a while, the impulse strong, but then he realised that something was wrong when it didn't happen. Wondering what was amiss, Sam took a deep breath, relaxed, and tried again, but he wasn't able to do it. He stood there for five minutes and tried again and again, but his efforts were in vain so he zipped himself up, washed his hands and left, unnecessarily flushing the toilet after him. His inability to piss didn't help any with the fact that his bladder was full, though, and he hoped this wasn't anything serious.

Dean called him for dinner after that and they ate in silence, Castiel antsy from all his coffee, and then Sam returned to the library with others. He was sweating again after that and he felt warm, so he asked Dean to turn down the thermostat a little.

"It's quite cold, what's wrong with you?" Dean asked him as he obeyed Sam, but then he palmed Sam's forehead against the latter's wishes. "You're not burning up."

"No," Sam replied. There was an uneasy pain in his abdomen from the full bladder. "I'm just hot."

"Don't flatter yourself," Dean replied, sliding a Gatorade across the table.

"No, thanks," Sam replied, trying not to wince at his bladder.

"It wasn't a request."

Sam huffed and cracked the bottle open, drinking up the lemon green liquid after that. "Happy?" he asked, when he was done.

"No, but it will do."

He sighed. After a while, he retired to bed, but made another attempt to pee before that, failing again this time. The urge was so bad, but he couldn't understand why he was unable to relieve himself. He didn't tell Dean about any of it, though.

By next morning, he was in agony. The nightly limb-burning-whatever-shit, and then his aching bladder with the need, but inability to pee were getting him crazy, but he kept it in control. He realised that for some goddamned reason, he was unable to void his bladder and he didn't know why. All he knew was that this could get serious if it continued, as it could mean kidney disease, apart from the fact that all that chemo was excreted via urine over days. It couldn't stay in, unless he wanted to poison himself to death.

He promised himself that he'd tell Dean if it didn't go away in the next twenty four hours. He wished he'd had the chance to speak out, though, as a few hours later, after lunch when he got up from the table, the abdominal pain, dizziness, heat and sweating got to him all at once along with a terrible ache in his chest, and all he remembered after that was rapidly meeting the floor, Dean calling out to him as he did so.

When he came to, gentle, firm fingers were prodding him – his abdomen, to be precise, poking around his navel. He still wanted to pee and the urge increased, and for a moment, he couldn't understand why someone was poking his belly. And then it all came to him.

He groaned, and felt a hand squeeze his arm. "It's okay, Sam," said a calm, female voice. _Cecelia_. He realised then that his shirt was crowded around his chest and his jeans were missing. The waistband of his boxers was pulled down too. He smelled the familiarity of the hospital. An IV ran up his vein, giving more pain than he'd ever realised.

"Relax," Cecelia said when Sam tried to move, to snatch away the IV. _Why the fuck was it hurting so much?_ He opened his eyes to find himself in a cubicle of the ER, as Dr Greene continued to palpate his abdomen. She looked up at him, stripped off her gloves and sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," Sam told her. "What happened?"

"It's called peripheral neuropathy," she explained, pulling up a stool next to him and sitting down, and gesturing something to Cecelia. "It's from the cisplatin – a late side effect. You passed out when you stood up from a sitting position, didn't you?"

"Yes," he replied, "and... there's been other weird things."

"Tingling? Numbness? A strange, burning pain? Sweating?"

He frowned. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"It's the neuropathy. And your bladder's quite distended too. You have urinary retention due to a neurogenic bladder. Same reason."

"Can you correct it?" he asked her.

"I'll have to catheterise," she replied, gesturing to Cecelia to get the equipment. "But the neuropathy, no. I'm sorry. We can give symptomatic relief and decrease your chemo dosage, if you want that. But that would mean..."

"... I'll die sooner," Sam said blandly.

"Don't—"

He shrugged. "You agree."

She licked her lips. "Anyway, I'll catheterise you now, but there could be similar episodes, and if it happens—"

"—I come straight to you," Sam finished for her.

"No, actually," she said, pulling down Sam's boxers all the way as she snapped on a new pair of gloves. Latex, Sam noticed. He hated the stink of latex gloves. They smelled like condoms. At the same time, though, he was painfully aware of being exposed to two people like that, and he couldn't help the redness that crept up his cheeks.

"Relax," Dr Greene said, noticing his embarrassment. "I won't be more than five minutes, okay?"

He nodded and watched as Cecelia stripped open the sterile packaging of the Foley and the doctor carefully pulled out the catheter. She started to spread a jelly on its tip and Sam looked away as she bent over, held him and began to insert the catheter.

"Easy, easy," the doctor was saying and Sam grit his teeth against the uneasiness and pain, and then he felt Cecelia move before his bladder started to empty suddenly.

"All done, Sam," Dr Greene said, and he opened his eyes, ears still warm, as Cecelia adjusted the collection bag and threw a blanket to protect his dignity. He could see his jeans and boxers folded up on a chair beside him and he turned to the doctor.

"What should I do if this happens again?"

"You could come here, like you said," she shrugged, "or you could do this at home. Dean—"

"No, Dean isn't doing anything," Sam murmured, "I'll come here. Or can I do it by myself?"

"You can," she said, "but it will be painful."

"That's fine."

Dean was his brother, and they'd been through everything together and Sam knew that his brother had even changed his diapers and everything, but this wouldn't happen. There was a limit to what he'd allow Dean to do for him, and he was pretty sure that Dean wouldn't be thrilled to do this either, and would only agree if it was necessary. And it wasn't necessary, so Sam was ready to handle it by himself.

"Okay, then," said the doctor, cutting through his thoughts. "Let's get your bladder empty for now, and then Cecelia can tell you how it's done. Listen carefully, all right?"

"I will." He'd draw diagrams and take notes if he had to, but Dean would have no part in this.

The doctor smiled as she left, and Cecelia spoke. "Would you like Dean and your other friend to come in now? They're waiting outside."

"Sure," Sam replied, tugging his blankets around him so he could be sure that he wasn't exposed, and waving for her to let Dean and Castiel inside.

As she left, he settled back down and prepared himself to explain to his brother about why he had been hiding the new side-effects from him. However, he was in for a surprise as only Castiel entered the cubicle, unaccompanied by Dean.

**~o~**

Dean didn't go in with Castiel when Cecelia beckoned to them. Instead, he waited, spoke to the doctor and learned about Sam's peripheral neuropathy, which was apparently the cause for his brother's new symptoms. And then he washed a hand down his face as he heard of it all. He was tired of this. So tired of Sam being sicker and sicker.

"Have you asked him what he wants to do?" Dean asked Dr Greene when she mentioned that the only way to bring the neuropathy under control was to reduce the chemo dosage. And as such, even with all that maximum dosage, Sam wasn't responding very well to treatment, so Dean wondered where this would take them.

"He has until the next round to give me an answer," she shrugged, "so you can discuss it together and see what you agree upon."

"Yeah, yeah," he ran his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, doc."

"No problem," she replied, and turned to walk away, but Dean spoke again.

"Uh, but I think I know what he'd want," he said, causing her to look at him again, questioningly. "He'll never tell me," continued Dean, chuckling sadly, "and he'll never tell you. But I think Sam would want to have the dosage reduced. It's just... I'm pushing him so hard to fight..."

"And he wants to," she replied. "The one thing I've learned about him from the last couple of months of being his doctor is that Sam really, really wants to fight."

"But he's in enough pain already, and that's really eating him up," Dean said with a sigh. "So... even if he doesn't say it, just reduce the dose, okay?"

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Yeah. Well, I can't afford to lose my brother – I really can't – but I don't want him in pain either. Just make sure he isn't in any more pain?"

The doctor stared at him for a moment, nodding slowly and losing the resolve in her intelligent eyes for a moment – before turning away and making her way to her office.

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews? :D

And my hands smelled like condoms for a whole year, when I had to wear gloves during my first year for the daily dissection period lol. The 'smelling like a condom' expression isn't mine, though. It's a friend's, and I'm borrowing it for Sam, ha!

**Review responses:**

**Guest:** Yeah, I do torture all three of them a fair bit, don't I? :p Thank you! It means a lot to me that you like the research and the medical stuff. :) And yes, that's my intention - making it more and more angsty as I go lol. But the next chapter should be a little lighter, at least in some parts, and for the Destiel shippers. :) Thank you so much for reviewing! :D

**Ruffles**: Oh, ha, I do that sometimes lol. It was mostly just a small exam and I was thinking of waking up early and revising so... hope your interview went well, though! :) I am flattered that you like the characterisation, plot and medical stuff. And I couldn't possibly produce twenty more chapters, but maybe this would have had more of them, had I not been adamant on fixing the word count to 4000-5000 per chapter. Yet, I feel that that I need a certain number of things to happen per chapter, so it's like this lol. You're right in worrying about all three of them. You really should. ;) Thank you! Hope you had a good sleep! :)


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